Static Cling
by Morkhan
Summary: Sam got brought back from the dead, so Dean assumed Adam got the same treatment.  As it turns out… he was half-right.  Spoilers for the series 'til around 6x05.
1. Dark Passenger

**Title:** Static Cling  
**Author: **morkhan  
**Warnings:** Cursing, bad prank ideas, some squickiness.  
**Characters:** Sam, Dean, and… well, guess.  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Word Count:** 2614  
**Summary: ** Sam got brought back from the dead, so Dean assumed Adam got the same treatment. As it turns out… he was half-right. Spoilers for the series 'til 5.22.  
**Disclaimer**: I own nothing. I barely own the ideas I use, randomly cobbled together from bits and pieces of things I've watched or read. Eric Kripke and the CW are the REAL geniuses here.

**Author's Notes: **Another idea that latched onto my head and wouldn't let go… you can think of this as the darker counterpart to 'Shiny Happy People.' Same basic premise; hypothetical season 6, unrelated to other stories. Adam's storyline is resolved, but this time, things are much less happy. And while I won't say this is my darkest story, I **will** say that this is probably my darkest take on Adam to date. You have been warned. *evil laughter* Reviews are beloved, as always. Enjoy!

* * *

It starts small.

Dean gets into the car after a short, but heated argument with Sam over their father's legacy (will they ever _not_ argue about the man?). He turns the key, expecting some nice, angry metal to help soothe his troubled soul, and is instead greeted by the vocal stylings of Mike Myers.

_Daddy…  
Daddy wasn't there!  
Daddy…  
Daddy wasn't there!  
To take me to the fair!  
It seems he doesn't caaaaaaare_…

He thinks it's Sam, of course. Who else would it be? And while Dean might have once thought it beneath Sam to belittle their issues like this, Dean is slowly but surely starting to think that Sam's "_You don't know me, you never did, and you never will_" was more than just the demon blood talking. A quick, angry flick of the finger turns the radio off. It's not exactly _funny_, but it's relatively harmless and a lot less unsettling than all the _other_ things on the '_What's New in Sammyland_?' questionnaire. So, fine. If Sam wants to reinstate the prank wars, Dean is more than willing to take up his water guns and squirt to the last drop. Who knows? A little laughter might be good for them…

You know, as long as they don't _die_ laughing. Or… well, actually, considering their other deaths, a laughing death might not be so bad.

So when Sam gets home after a long, pointless tracking session and finds himself completely unable to take off his boots, Dean isn't quite expecting for Sam's reaction to be so… _strong_. Not 'strong' as in an emotional breakdown or beating Dean to death with the tacky-ass leopard spotted lamp on the bedside dresser, but 'strong' as in Sam glaring at Dean, grinding his teeth, and _tearing_ the boot off of his foot with slightly unsettling ease. A few meaty strips of skin come off with it, and… wow. Super gluing your brothers boots to his feet may seem like kind of a dick move, but he had the damn solvent in his case, and he totally intended to give it to Sam… _eventually_. Of course, it soon becomes immediately obvious what Sam was thinking when he starts hopping around on one foot and chasing Dean with his bloodied appendage. Dean has a… _thing_ about feet. A bad thing. The worst performance he ever gave with a woman involved a slightly older lady who wanted him to suck on her toes, who was _just_ hot enough to convince Dean that he could get past his gag reflex and make it work for her and… long story short, puking during sex? Huge turn off. And while blood in and of itself usually isn't too bad, _foot_ blood? Well, if Dean spends the rest of the night locked in the bathroom, it's only because he knows what's waiting for him outside. He's slept in worse.

* * *

Personally, he thinks that should be enough for Sam, and they need to focus on the hunt anyway. Because apparently 'Gross Dean Right the Fuck Out' day is EVERY DAY this week, their hunt turns out to be a fucking **tanuki**, and Dean is nearly knocked out by a magical raccoon using its scrotum as a flail.

Repeat: _Dean is nearly knocked out by a magical raccoon using its scrotum as a flail_.

You really must understand this. There is a large bruise on Dean's cheek. The source of that bruise? **HIGH SPEED TESTICLES.** Nuts the size of a _small child_.

To his _**face**_.

It's the mother of all teabags.

Karma owes him a break for that. The fact that fucking Sam _saw_ it happen was just the Ultimate Indignity, and Dean figures that fact should massage Sam's pitying instincts enough to get him to back off from the prank wars for a bit.

Of course, he figures wrong. The second he cranks the car up, Bon Scott and the Young brothers mock his pain in song…

_I've got big balls,  
Oh, I've got big balls,  
And they're such big balls,  
Dirty big balls,  
And he's got big balls,  
And she's got big balls,  
But we've got the biggest balls of them all!_

Sam is half-laughing, half-_seizing_ by the end of the first chorus, and Dean is mortified. He would've expected this kind of thing from his brother… but _never_ from AC/DC. Their betrayal is the bitterest French fry on Dean's Combo Platter of Humiliation, and Dean vows to make Sam _pay_ for his unforgivable misappropriation of classic rock…

* * *

…which is why, a week later, Sam comes out of the shower with platinum-blond hair.

"What the **fuck**, Dean?" Sam demands, looking far angrier than he has any right to be.

"Wow, Sammy. You are a _babe_. And… looking kind of disturbingly like mom at the moment…"

"You think this is _funny_?" Sam shouts, putting so much emphasis on the 'f' that it produces visible gobs of spit.

"Awww, you don't like it? Not feeling pretty?" Dean asks, smiling in sympathy. "Tell you what; let me finish my hamburger, and we'll take you out, get your nails done… Hell, I'll even take you shopping for some new shirts. Then we can come back to the hotel and eat ice cream and watch old movies together."

Sam's breathing is _intense;_ in and out through his nose like he's a dragon without fire to breathe, trying to kill Dean through sheer force of air. "This," he says, teeth clenched, "is not funny. _This_," he says, pointing to his hair, "makes me stand out. You could spot me in a crowd of a **hundred** people with this hair. We're supposed to _blend in_, Dean! No distinguishing marks, no bright colors, nothing that would set us apart from the crowd."

Dean snorts. "Oh, yeah. And that big, beautiful black classic in the parking lot, that's not distinctive at _all_."

Sam just continues breathing imaginary fire at him. "**Fix it**."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Fine."

One hour and one treatment of brown hair dye later, and Sam's hair is…

Forest green?

"_**DEAN**_," Sam cries from the bathroom mirror, looking dangerously close to grabbing his brother's face and using his massive thumbs to pop Dean's eyeballs like a pair of juicy tomatoes.

Dean backs away slowly, hands up in surrender. "Dude, I _swear_, I had no idea that would happen."

When Sam reaches out to grab him, Dean bolts from the hotel room. He returns an hour later with several _nice_ hats.

Sam is not appeased by his offering.

Dean goes to sleep expecting to wake up with an oil-stained hubcap in his bed, or covered in the demagnetized strips of his entire cassette collection. What he **gets** is far worse.

The first thing he notices is the dry, acrid taste in his mouth. Upon closing it to try and get some moisture trapped in there, the second thing he notices is—_hair_. His mouth is full of hair. This springboards him from groggy pseudo-awareness to being fully awake with speed and force that would make the wiliest Whack-a-Mole green with envy. It is all around him. All over his pillow, all over his sheets, his face, his shirt, his bed. He is disgusted, until he takes note of the color of the hair and realizes—it's not where the hair is that's important. It's where it **isn't**.

And it isn't on his head.

"_**SAM**_," Dean shouts, shooting up from the bed fully intent on kicking Sam's ass from here 'til next Friday. His newly-acquired penchant for pull-ups notwithstanding, Dean is still confident in his ability to hand Sammy his hindquarters on a cheap plastic tray. But the giant prick is nowhere to be found—instead, Dean simply finds a note.

_Turnabout is fair play, jerkass. – Sam  
P.S: Since I'd hate to have to kick your ass in addition to humiliating you, I'm taking a little hike. See you when you've had a chance to cool off_.

Dean will **never cool off**. Not from this.

After spending half an hour trying on the various hats he bought for _Sam_, he settles on a black beanie and stomps his way out to the car, eager to eat away his troubles in the greasiest diner he can survive. He cannot believe—how could Sam even **think** of—

_How could this happen to me?  
I've made my mistakes,  
Got nowhere to run,  
The night goes on as I'm fading away.  
I'm sick of this life,  
I just wanna screeeeeaaam!_

Dean practically punches the radio in turning it off.

Kill. Murder. Destroy. Fuck the apocalypse. Fuck Satan, fuck demon blood, fuck the angels, fuck destiny. **This** is the final straw. This is where brother turns against brother. The two shall meet on the chosen field and only one shall walk away. Dean is looking for a glove to slap him with to officially instigate the duel when Sam knocks on the window.

Dean immediately exits the car.

"See, Dean, this is why we should never start these stupid pran—"

Sam's Speech of Peace-making is interrupted by Dean's Declaration of War, also known as _his fist_, and occasionally 'Mr. Rightey.' And at that point, it is on like Cranky Kong, with the two of them getting into a knock-down, drag-out, no-holds-barred brawl right in the middle of the hotel parking lot, in broad (well, early morning) daylight.

In retrospect, they probably should have at least taken their domestic dispute indoors. Dean doesn't even know why he's surprised when the cops show up.

* * *

Being locked in a holding cell together gives them some time to cool off.

Not that they _use_ it for that, but still. The time is there if they need it.

"_Bald_," Dean whisper-shouts. "_Bald is not beautiful, Sam! Not on me!_"

"_And green is __**such**__ a flattering hair color_," Sam counters. "_I look like a tree, Dean. An actual, walking tree!_"

"_So?_" Dean scoffs, rolling his eyes. "_You can just dye yours again. But I can't exactly dye what __**no longer exists!**_"

"_Boo hoo_," Sam says. "_Great thing about hair—it grows back! Yours will take no time at all. Mine takes __**months**__ to get how I like it, and… you know what? Screw it. I'm done. This is over. No more prank wars. If you do anything else to me, I'll just __**shoot you**__."_

Dean feels a tiny thrill of victory. "_Giving up already? Fine by me. Don't start what you can't finish, Sammy_."

Sam glares at him. "_**You **__started this_."

Dean returns his glare. "_No, __**you **__started it, with your cute little 'mess with Dean's soundtrack' joke._"

"_I didn't mess with anything. __**You**__ started this when you replaced my mouthwash with jalapeno extract!_"

"_No, I didn't!_" Dean replies. _"I never touched your… son of a __**bitch**__._"

It seems to dawn on Sam around the same time. "_We've been had. Again_."

It is around this time that the guard finally comes to release them.

* * *

"I thought he was dead!" Dean sighs as they get back to the hotel.

"We've thought that before," Sam replies.

Dean takes of his hat and lays it on the table. "No, I mean, for _real_ this time. He danced with the devil, dude. Really, actually came over to our side and helped us out. Which of course, meant he _had_ to die, because…" He trails off when he hears Sam snickering, and realizes abruptly that he just exposed his polished, shining new chrome dome to the world without even thinking about it.

"I'm sorry," Sam says. "I just… it's the first time I've really got a good look at it, and… _oh god_."

Dean makes a point of angrily snatching the beanie off the table and slamming it back down on his head. He then turns to rage against the Heavens. "All right, you son of a bitch!" he shouts. "We get it! Ha, ha, very funny, you've had your fun! We all had a great time and learned a valuable lesson, whatever! You can come out now!"

Silence.

"Seriously!" Dean shouts. "We're not even mad!" he blatantly lies. "Just come out. We can go have a beer to celebrate the Apocalypse-that-Almost-Was."

Nothing happens.

"Jackass," Dean mutters.

"Maybe it wasn't Gabriel," Sam suggests with a shrug.

"Who else would do this? Who else would have a good reason to mess with us and _not_ kill us, AND a kindergartener's sense of humor?" Dean asks.

Sam shrugs again.

Dean continues to contemplate the question as he packs.

* * *

"I got nothin', Sammy," Dean says, closing the door.

"Me too," Sam agrees. "If it's not Gabriel… I guess we just have to solve this the old-fashioned way. Look for clues, cross things out until we get the right answer."

Dean turns this over in his brain. "What kind of clues?" he asks as he cranks the car, making the point moot, because the defining clue immediately leaps out of the speakers in the form of a distorted voice to greet them…

_Haha…  
__**YES**__.  
Finally someone let me out of my cage!  
Now, time for me is nothing 'cause I'm counting no age.  
Nah I couldn't be there,  
Nah you shouldn't be scared,  
I'm good at repairs,  
And I'm under each snare.  
Intangible,  
Bet you didn't think, so I command you to!  
Panoramic view,  
Look, I'll make it all manageable.  
Pick and choose,  
Sit and lose,  
All you different crews.  
Chicks and dudes,  
Who you think is really kickin' tunes?_

Sam's eyes go wide as he stares at Dean, who is pretty sure he is wearing a similar expression. "The cage," Sam says.

"Lucifer?" Dean asks.

Sam shakes his head. "I don't… no way. He wouldn't mess with us like this, he'd probably just kill us."

"Michael too," Dean agrees. "Guy had **no** sense of humor."

"_Got that right_," a third voice chimes in.

A familiar fear begins pumping into Dean's bloodstream as both he and Sam look around the car to find no one there.

"Who are you?" Sam asks, just in time for the radio to turn itself up…

_You see with your eyes.  
I see destruction and demise,  
Corruption in the skies,  
From this fucking enterprise,  
Now I'm sucked into your lies…_

"…only one other option," Dean says. "But there's… he can't… wait. Sam, get out your cell phone."

Sam complies, and Dean snatches it out of his hand, activating the camera and peering into the little screen. A quick sweep of the backseat shows him everything he needs to know.

He's leaning back, feet resting on Sam's seat as he finger-drums in time with the song. His hair is darker, his skin is pale, his clothes are tattered and filthy, but there is no mistaking him for anyone else. He is wearing a slightly malicious smirk, and his deeply-shadowed eyes along with his chapped lips and thin, sallow face make him look… skeletal. Ghastly. _Dead_.

"Adam," Dean breathes, barely even noticing as Sam's head creeps up beside his own to stare at the screen.

Adam's cold eyes point directly at Dean through the phone's display as he begins mouthing the words to the song…

_I ain't happy,  
I'm feeling glad,  
I got sunshine,  
In a bag.  
I'm useless,  
But not for long,  
My future,  
Is coming on.  
It's coming on.  
It's coming on.  
It's coming on.  
It's coming on.  
My future…_

With a little wink, Adam flickers and vanishes from the Impala.

Dean closes the phone and hands it back to Sam. "Shit," he says.

"Shit," Sam nods.

Finally, they agree on something.

_To Be Continued…_

* * *

**A/N**: The songs used were, in order…

_Daddy Wasn't There_ — Ming Tea (from the 'Austin Powers in Goldmember' soundtrack)_  
Big Balls_— AC/DC _  
Untitled_—Simple Plan_  
Clint Eastwood_—Gorrillaz

Again, feedback and reviews are beloved.


	2. Food Fight

**Title:** Static Cling [2/?]  
**Author: **morkhan  
**Warnings:** Cursing, exposition.  
**Characters:** Sam, Dean, Bobby, Adam (with us in spirit!) :D  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Word Count:** 3357  
**Summary: ** Dean and Sam try to figure out how to re-kill their baby brother. You know, for his own good, and stuff.  
**Disclaimer**: I own nothing. I barely own the ideas I use, randomly cobbled together from bits and pieces of things I've watched or read. Eric Kripke and the CW are the REAL geniuses here.

**Author's Notes: **WARNING: Here, there be exposition. I tried to pepper it with some nice character moments and bits of humor, but the main purpose of this chapter is to establish the way things are and lay down the road ahead. Adam's 'presence' in this story is interesting to experiment with, and I'm eager to see what you think of it so far. Reviews are greatly appreciated. Enjoy!

* * *

"Funny, kid. Real funny. We'll be laughing about this for _years_ to come. Why don't you come out so we can all laugh _together_?"

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"You'd be a lot more convincing if you said that _without_ the shotgun."

With teeth-clenching reluctance, Dean lowers the weapon. "Well, it's not like I can _kill_ the little bastard…" He looks around, though he isn't quite sure what he is expecting to see… well, besides a couple of people looking at him like he is a lunatic. The last thing they need is for someone to call the cops on them AGAIN. They're rarely as nice the second time around, and these guys weren't that nice to begin with. "Come on, let's go back inside."

"We already checked out."

"I don't care! I'm not going for a joyride with a dead kid in the backseat. We go inside, we make a plan, THEN we think about roadtripping. AFTER we figure out how to purify the car and keep him out of it." Dean stomps past Sam to the Impala's trunk. "Here," he says, tossing him the salt bag. "Start laying down lines. I'll be there in a second."

Sam shrugs and heads back to the room.

Meanwhile, Dean rummages through the trunk, looking for the EMF meter. It takes him a few minutes to find it (_damn kid probably rearranged everything just to piss me off_), and when he does, he starts to stand up only to smack the back of his head on the trunk. Okay, he _knows_ he put the lid up higher than that. "Sadistic little punk… why don't you try that kind of thing where I can see you?" he mutters.

Of course, a quick sweep of the EMF meter reveals nothing helpful. Stupid things were probably a lot more helpful back in the days before power lines and transformers were freakin' _everywhere_, and… well, Hell. Did EMF Meters even _exist_ before power lines and transformers were everywhere?

Whatever. Dean stomps off to the hotel room, rubbing the back of his head as he steps over the salt line Sam laid at the door.

"So… what's the plan?" Sam asks as he salts the windowsill.

"Salt and burn," Dean says. "We deal with him like we would any ghost. Find the corpse, grab a torch."

Sam smiles without looking at Dean. "Great plan. So, where do you propose we start looking?"

Dean opens his mouth to say something, but his mind suddenly catches on to Sam's insinuation, and the words abruptly vanish. "…well, uhh. He died from… huh." He tilts his head slightly, hoping to get the brain juices flowing more evenly or something. "Well, he fell into Hell. But so did you, and you're back. Maybe he came back the same way?"

"Doubt it," Sam says, putting the largely depleted salt bag on the table. They'll try vacuuming most of it up before they leave—waste not, want not, and all that shit. "Even if he did… he never contacted us, never told anybody we know what he might have been doing. He's been dead on paper for at least two years, so there's no way of knowing what name he might have used or where he went or what he did before he bit the dust again. **If** he came back at all."

The mattress creaks in passive-aggressive protest as Dean plops down on top of it. "Well, that's… just… that's just great." His brain is thoroughly racked for possible solutions, but he comes up with little of any use. "Maybe he came back in Stull? Underground, like last time, or whatever, couldn't dig his way out." Dean suppresses the slight tremor that threatens to emerge when he remembers his _own_ resurrection. Being buried alive is one of the oldest horror stories known to man, and it was easy to tell why when he went through it himself. In retrospect, he was probably endowed with some kind of temporary super-strength to be able to dig out the way he did, because under normal circumstances, that kind of thing just wouldn't be possible. If the kid died like that...

"It's a possibility," Sam shrugs. "Even if he did… that portal went down a long way. We might need excavation equipment to get to him. Plus, it's a _cemetery_, and an old one at that. There are going to be bodies all over the place. We could salt and burn them all and there's _still_ no guaranteeing that we'd be burning the right thing."

Dean sighs. "Fan. Freaking. Tastic. What the Hell, man? Why's he haunting _us_?"

Sam gives a rueful grin. "I can think of a _few_ good reasons… besides, who _else_ is he gonna haunt?"

Leaning back against the headboard helps him think. "For that matter, why is he haunting _anyone_? I figured, you know, at the very least he'd head back upstairs."

Sam assumes the classic 'The Thinker' pose. "I can't really say. We could ask Adam, but something tells me that if he was interested in talking to us, he'd have done it already."

"Yeah, he doesn't really strike me as the kind who'll go for the 'heart-to-heart' thing." On impulse, Dean decides to try the suggestion anyway. "Hey, kid! You in here? Pop out so we can talk to you. We're not mad—okay, we're a _little_ mad, but not _as_ mad. We won't shoot you. We just want to help." Naturally, nothing happens, and Dean feels like an idiot.

"Well, at least we know there aren't any holes in my security," Sam says with a smirk.

"Either that, or he just likes watching us spinning in our goddamn hamster wheels. Hey, sweep the room, see if he's in here," Dean says, taking out his EMF.

Sam pulls out his cell phone again, and starts to open it, but seems to freeze up in the middle of the action.

"What?" Dean asks.

"Look," Sam says, beckoning him closer and holding the phone up. Even at a distance, however, it's pretty obvious what he's seeing. Sam's wallpaper has been replaced with a picture of Adam, alive, smiling and standing arm-in-arm with several people they've never seen before. It's outdoors, daytime, some kind of brick building in the background, probably taken at whatever college the kid was going to. "I think I've seen this before…" Sam says.

"Where?" Dean asks.

Sam quickly pulls up the page on his phone's internet browser (and Dean, not for the first time, quietly considers upgrading his own cheap-but-reliable model to one that actually has, like, _features_). It's Adam's Facebook picture. Being dead, naturally, his page at this point has essentially turned into a memorial wall. The entries are heartfelt, if a little poorly written, and the gaps of time between them are wider with each successive one. The last is just a little over a month old, from a girl named Amber. '_still miss u_,' is all it says. The next one is from a guy named Todd, left four months ago. '_Saw 'Shaun of the Dead' on TV the other day and couldn't watch it cuz I kept remembering you. Fuck you for making me sad about zombie movies. I hope you're happy. (I really mean that, btw. wherever you are, I hope you're happy, man.)_'

It stings. Each and every message is another paper cut on a body that has already been chopped up and stitched back together more times than he can count. One day, Dean expects to wake up, get out of bed, and just fall to pieces like a poorly-made zombie. One day, he will get one paper cut too many, and collapse into neatly diced cubes, perfect for a salad or pizza topping. "You fucking creeper," Dean says, needing to distract himself from the maudlin issue. "What have you been doing, stalking him on the internet?"

Sam curls in on himself slightly. "After Windom, I just got curious one day and… I don't know. It was too late, but I still kind of wanted to know about him. What I could, anyway."

Dean goes to sit back down. "So… what? Adam messed with your cell phone?"

"He's been messing with your radio. We use EMF to find spirits, so it makes sense that they have some kind of power over electromagnetism."

"Why?"

"I have no idea. Why do any of this?"

Dean sighs and shakes his head. "Well, you're right about one thing. It's too late, now. Whatever happens… he's gotta go."

Sam does a sweep of the room, finishing the task that Dean forgot he even assigned before closing the phone again. "I know."

The elder Winchester gives him a long look.

An annoyed fish-eye is Sam's reply. "Don't give me that look. You think I'm supposed to disagree with you, whatever, I know, but I'm not the same kid I back then. Dean, you saw the look on his face in the car. I don't think he wants to play Casper. Even if he was just here to hug it out… it wouldn't change what we have to do. You _know_ what happens to ghosts."

"I know," Dean sighs. "Just wondering what you're thinking, Sammy," he says, and it's God's Honest Truth. The '_all the damn time_' that he leaves off of the end doesn't count as a lie, he's pretty sure. "Still… if he were on our side… having a ghost around? That'd be all kinds of awesome."

"Of course, for him to be on our side, he would also have to not **hate **us."

"Point."

"So, that brings us back to: what's the plan?"

Dean pulls out his phone. "Right now, the only plan we have worth talking about is Plan B…"

…also known as '_Plan Bobby_.'

* * *

Fuckin' Kappas. You'd think something with a weakness as piss-obvious as 'the water in its bowl-shaped head' would be fairly easy to smoke, but you'd be wrong, and probably dead shortly thereafter. Ugly-ass turtle-lizard bit like a motherfucker, damn near took his arm off. And as soon as the aforementioned arm is in fit condition, he's gonna find the dumb bastard who told him to feet it a cucumber and punch his face inside-out. Fuckin' _cucumbers_. He can't believe he actually listened to that dumbshit. 'Oh, it eats human guts and drinks their blood but you know what it _really_ likes? FUCKIN' CUCUMBERS-'

His angry internal rant is interrupted by his phone ringing. "What," he grunts, having no patience for people at the moment.

"_Hey, Bobby. We've got a little spirit problem."_

He rolls his eyes. Dean's not around to see, so Bobby is pretty sure his precious feelings are safe. "Well, gosh, Dean. A spirit, really? Well, I can't imagine what you might do about that…"

"_Ha ha. Alright, wise man. Answer me this; how do you get rid of a spirit with no remains to burn?"_

"You hit your head or something, boy? You've taken care of that kind of ghost before. Even if there's no body, there's always _something_. Ghosts can't just wander around willy-nilly; this world ain't built for 'em. They gotta have an anchor, so you just have to figure out what it is."

"_Easier said than done, in this case…"_

That tone, Bobby recognizes immediately. It's Dean's 'I don't want to talk but I really want to talk so please ask me to talk but don't make me talk' voice. Fuck, he knew he should've taken the damn codeine and slept the rest of the day. "Oh, just spill the damn beans already. I'm old, damn it. You keep beating around the bush and I might die before you get to the point."

A sigh wafts through the phone._ "It's Adam."_

He has to think for a few seconds before the face comes up to match the name, but when he gets it (_smart-mouthed, surly, sour-faced little punk, John's boy sure as the sun rises_), his blood runs a little colder for the realization. "…_Adam_? As in 'your half-brother' Adam?"

"_Only Adam I know."_

"Well… shit."

"_That's exactly what I said!"_

"I thought…" Bobby starts, but Dean cuts him off.

"_I know, I know. Me too."_

"So, if he didn't get brought back like Sam, how is he back at all?" Bobby walks while he talks, heading to his library to see if he can find anything helpful.

"_Beats me. This whole thing is just weird, and he's not exactly stopping to explain it to us_."

"No body to burn, I'm guessing because he fell into Hell… but then, what's he tied to? How is he hanging around?"

"_Ain't __**that**__ the million dollar question…_"

"He tryin' to kill you?"

"_No, he's just _annoying_ us. Me and Sam came damn close to ten paces at sundown before we figured out he was screwing with us."_

"Huh," Bobby says, distracted, as he brushes the dust off of some books on a high shelf, trying to see the titles.

"_What?"_

"I figured he'd be trying to kill you. If it were me, I'd be trying to kill you."

"_Gee, thanks, Bobby. You always know how to make a guy feel loved."_

A couple of titles jump out at him (figuratively) and he snatches them up to start a 'ghost pile.' "Truth hurts, son. Your fault or not, the kid got dragged into Hell and you're the only ones around to blame. Maybe you should try talking to him again. That 'unfinished business' stuff ain't all horseshit."

"_And if he doesn't want to talk?"_

"…I'm workin' on that. There are ways to confine him, control him, force him to talk. They won't make him too happy, but if he leaves you no choice, he leaves you no choice. It's gonna take some time to hunt them down, though. You might want to look into a psychic or a medium meantime. They could probably figure something to help you a lot faster than this old dog."

"_Alright. I think I've got someone in mind_…" The signal breaks for a second, static humming on the other end before Dean's voice filters through again. _"…oh, and one more thing."_

"Yeah?" he says, adding more books to the pile.

"_See… I've been having… I don't know… really weird thoughts lately. Like… __**urges**__, you know? You ever get urges, Bobby?"_

Progress on the ghost pile comes to a sudden halt as Bobby tries to give Dean the weirdest look he can through a telephone line. "Dean, what the Hell…"

"_Like sometimes I just want to dress up in some nice lingerie and stand in front of the mirror and be _**beautiful**_. I just want to feel pretty, Bobby. Don't you want to feel pretty?"_

The book drops from his hand as Bobby sputters for a response to that. What in the Jiminy Cricket _fuck _is that boy on? "I ain't your god damn therapist, boy! I don't want to hear about your… _urges_, you nasty sumbitch."

"_I just…_" A sniffle. _"I thought I could trust you, Bobby."_

It's just too damn weird. Suddenly, Bobby wonders if he **did** take that codeine, and this is some kind of fucked-up fever dream. Whatever it is, he doesn't like it. "I'm hanging up, Dean. When you come down off of whatever dope you're smoking, you can call me again."

The sound from the other end sounds like crying at first, but just before Bobby slams the phone shut, he'd almost swear it flips right over, sounding more like _laughter_…

* * *

"Bobby? Bobby! Hey, can you hear me? What's going on?" Dean says, shouting into the phone like he thinks he scare away the static if he yells loud enough.

Sam quirks an eyebrow at him. "Phone cut out?"

"Nah, it just got really staticy all of a sudden. Probably went into a tunnel or something," Dean sighs, shutting the phone and shoving it back in his pocket.

"So, third time's the charm: _what's the plan_?" Sam says with a grin.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Why do I gotta be the one with the plan? Why can't _you_ make the plan?"

"You like to be in control. And you're bald. I'm humoring you," is Sam's smug reply.

A slight snarl forms on Dean's face as he angrily pulls the beanie further down on his head. "The plan," he grunts, "is simple: we try to talk to him. If he won't open up, we find us a black magic woman and we summon his ass and _make_ him talk."

"Sounds good. Missouri?" Sam asks.

"We're closer to her than anybody else. It's been a while, but she'll understand. Probably," Dean adds, remembering his encounter with the rather formidable woman so many years ago. He can't even begin to put into words the worlds of difference between the man he is now and the boy (he isn't afraid to admit) he was back then. "In the meantime," Dean says, looking outside, "let's see if he'll chat on his own." The sun has dipped below the horizon, the barest tint of orange and pink hanging at the sky's edge. Ghosts become more powerful at night, which means Adam will be more dangerous now. It also means, however, that he might be able to take physical form and pow-wow with them. Only one way to find out…

Heading to the door, (with Sam laying down a secondary salt line in case the first is breached), Dean opens it and sticks his head out, looking around to see if the coast is clear. When he sees no one around, he extends the olive branch. "Hey, Adam. You out here? We really want to talk to you, man, we're sorr—"

His answer comes in powder form and hits him in the face with enough force to knock him backwards.

"Dean!" Sam says, loyally coming to his aid by slamming the door shut.

It takes a couple of seconds for Dean to figure out exactly what _**OH DEAR GOD IT BURNS**_. Suddenly, his entire life boils down to a desperate attempt to _**OFF OFF GET IT OFF GET IT OFF GET IT OUT GET IT AWAY FROM ME BURNING OWWW**_. He is coughing and hacking and wheezing and choking, spitting and sneezing and snotting and snorting, all to no avail. His eyes throw all the tears they can muster, his mucus glands fly into overdrive, he sweats and pants and is inundated with more spit than he knows what to do with, but nothing, none of it, can save him from the horrible searing pain of—

"Pepper," Sam says, almost in awe.

Dean stops coughing just long enough to give that statement the "What the _fuck_?" it so richly deserves.

"He hit you with _pepper_, Dean," Sam says, and though it's hard to tell with all the water in his eyes, the bastard sounds like he is _smiling_, and Sam is the Devil. Dean is sure of it now. He has to be. Besides, he's way better than Lucifer at the job to begin with. And… what the… is he _laughing_?

"What the fu—" Here, he pauses for a short coughing fit, followed by a sneeze. "What's so funny?" he says, his voice thick with mucus.

"Dean, he hit you with _pepper_. Don't you get it?" Sam says, helping him up off the floor.

"Oh, I **got** it. I got it all over my _face_," he grunts.

"No, Dean, I mean… it's a joke. Not a _great_ one, but still. Think about it. We keep him out with _salt_, he counters with…" he trails off, leaving Dean to fill in the obvious blank as they head into the bathroom.

Dean can only groan as he shoves Sam off and stumbles towards the shower, turning it on and immediately blasting himself in the face with wonderful, refreshing, fantastic, glorious cool, clean, clear water. "Great. He thinks he's funny. I **hate** it when they think they're funny."

"It's like Trickster 2: the Squeakquel," Sam laughs.

Dean just groans louder. Sam is right, and at the moment, Dean can't quite decide whether their new Trickster is better or worse than the old one.

Maybe _both_.

_To Be Continued..._


	3. Please Do Stop the Music

**Title:** Static Cling [3/?]  
**Author: **morkhan  
**Warnings:** Cursing, musicals.  
**Characters:** Sam, Dean, Missouri, and Adam  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Word Count:** 3170  
**Summary: ** The Winchesters Three have a sharing and caring session with the help of an old friend. Naturally, this makes everything worse.  
**Disclaimer**: Characters owned by CW and Eric Kripke. Song lyrics owned by the artists/writers/production companies.

**Author's Notes: **Adam makes his 'debut' in this chapter. His presence has been felt all throughout, of course, but this is the chapter where he finally appears 'in person' to the boys. It goes about as well as you might expect. :P I'm using a bit of New!Sam here, but my New!Sam and the show's New!Sam are probably going to turn out to be very different creatures. Just be sure that with both of them, there is more going on than meets the eye. ;) Please do leave reviews. I am a lover of feedback in all forms.

* * *

Dean manages a few hours of sleep after Sam crams some Benadryl down his throat to release him from Mucus Hell. He is pretty sure the pepper-pounding wouldn't be half as bad if it wasn't for his body going nucking futs trying to expel the shit and keep it out. Those few hours of rest allow him to wake up a lot less miserable, and after a quick check to make sure the sunrise is nice and bright on the horizon, they clean up and head for the Impala, Missouri on their minds (and they don't mean the state).

"Think we should call ahead?" asks Dean.

"If she's as good as I remember, she already knows we're coming," says Sam with a slight grin as he cranks the car (Dean's still a little watery-eyed), and…

_I got a Black Magic Woman.  
I got a Black Magic Woman.  
Yes, I got a Black Magic Woman,  
She's got me so blind I can't see;  
But she's a Black Magic Woman and  
she's trying to make a devil out of me._

Dean checks the rearview mirror just to make sure Adam isn't lounging in the backseat (which he wouldn't be able to see anyway, but still). "_I think he knows our plan_," he whispers.

"_I think he can probably hear us whispering, too_," Sam replies.

Dean rolls his eyes, but is forced to concede. When he has a point, he has a point. "Hey, Adam. You listening?"

The radio fuzzes for a second before the song switches.

_Every move you make,  
Every vow you break,  
Every smile you fake,  
Every claim you stake,  
I'll be watching you,_

"Fucking creepy little…" Dean rolls his eyes. "You know, you could just _talk_ to us."

More fuzz.

_A little less conversation,  
A little more action, please.  
All this aggravation  
Ain't satisfactionin' me…_

Sam shrugs. "At least he's communicating. That's… _progress_, I guess." Dean scoffs as he tries to adjust the radio so it's a little less loud. He's got no beef with the King, but apparently, ghosts have shitty hearing and Dean kind of wants to keep his ears in working order for as long as possible. The Impala pulls onto the highway as Elvis kicks it into high gear, and Dean leans back to massage his nose and hate his life for a few more seconds.

"Okay. Fine. We'll play song tag," Dean grunts. The King continues to warble as Dean tries to think of exactly what he wants to say to this kid. Sam keeps giving him sidelong glances.

"I'm thinking!" Dean says, defensive. "It's a little awkward, okay? I got no idea what… okay, first thing; why aren't you in heaven?"

Elvis shimmies back into radio Hell as he is replaced by thudding techno (Dean makes a note to buy new speakers for the Impala, as the current ones have now been tainted beyond all redemption).

_Heaven ain't close in a place like this  
I said a-Heaven ain't close in a place like this…_

"That's not an answer!" Dean shouts over the song.

In the driver's seat, Sam's traitorous head bobs with the beat. Dean skewers him with dual dagger-eyes. "What?" Sam says. "I like this song."

The radio abruptly goes quiet. Dean raises his eyebrows. "Ha. Reverse psychology… good thinking, Sammy. Though I guess that probably won't work all the time."

Sam nods without looking at Dean. "Yeah. Reverse psychology… that's what it was." He clears his throat before firing a question of his own. "Adam, why are you haunting _us_?"

A spirit-constricting sense of snakelike dread wraps around Dean and begins to squeeze as the gentle plinking tones of a music box fill the interior of the Impala…

_You're my Honeybunch, Sugarplum,  
Pumpy-umpy-umpkin, You're my Sweetie Pie.  
You're my Cuppycake, Gumdrop,  
Snoogums-Boogums, You're the Apple of my Eye._

The horror.

**THE HORROR**.

He can feel his teeth turning black and rotting at twelve times the speed of _suck_ from the sheer volume of _**soul-searing saccharine sweetness**_ infused in every note of the song. "Off! Cut it off!" he shouts, but the abomination unto God and Music continues to run fingernail files across his mental chalkboard, and Dean quietly wishes he could slip into a diabetic coma and **die** just to get away.

_And I love you so and I want you to know,  
That I'll always be right here…  
And I love to sing sweet songs to you,  
Because  
you  
are  
so  
__**DEAR**__._

Even Sam is starting to look a little queasy. Their hands collide rather painfully as they both reach up to turn the volume to zero. Their best friend has become their worst enemy; music generally keeps them awake and aware. Long drives like the ones they take can cause even the experienced roadtripper to fall victim to highway hypnosis, and then it's just a quick blink away from your car being bisected by a pine tree. But that's a risk Dean is more than willing to take rather than suffering through some more of Adam's Playlist from the Pit.

"Was he this much of a punk when he was alive?" Dean asks in the blessed, wonderful silence. He spent most of the time the kid was around in lockdown, on full suicide-by-angel watch.

Sam contemplates the question for a moment. "More or less, yeah," he decides.

Dean, in turn, decides to not feel guilty in the slightest about exorcising him with extreme prejudice. "Kid, I'm warning you," he growls. "You do **not** want to play hardball with us."

In response, the volume knob twists itself back around, and the Impala's speakers assure both Winchesters…

_You can't touch this_.  
_Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh.  
You can't touch this._

Oh yeah. This bastard is getting kicked into the afterlife so hard, _Dad_ will feel it.

* * *

Missouri, of course, opens the door before they even knock. "I swear, I would have thought by now _somebody_ would've taught you boys some manners. Dropping in on a woman unannounced without even a phone call?"

The elder Winchester gives Sam a victory smirk.

"We figured you would know we were coming," Sam says, chagrinned.

"That don't make a lick of difference, Sam Winchester," Missouri replies. "It's the principle of the thing. And Dean, don't think you can stand there all smug like you _did_ something. You got a phone, too, don't you? Matter fact, you're even worse because you _knew_ better."

Yup. She's just as good as Dean remembers. Nobody can make him feel like a friggin' 4-year-old like her.

"Well, come on in," she says, motioning them inside after a few minutes of them staring at the ground like the thoroughly scolded schoolboys that they are. They file past her obediently while she stands at the door like a warden, watching over her prisoners. It's not until she speaks again that her reasons for staying behind become clear.

"Well, now look at you!" she says to… no one? "So polite… I'm glad at least _one_ of you got some sense. Yes, you may come in. But don't touch anything, sweetie, I don't want you to get hurt. Not all spirits are as nice as you."

_Nice_? Dean mouths to Sam, who seems just as incredulous, shrugging in a way that's less 'I don't care' and more 'I don't even know.'

They find themselves ushered into Missouri's living room, which already has a few candles lit on a small altar positioned on a coffee table; a séance just waiting to happen. Dean isn't quite sure what to think. Exactly how much does this lady _know_?

"To answer your question, Dean, a lot. To answer yours, Sam, no, I'm not going to 'get rid of him' for you. If you want him gone, you'll have to kick him to the curb yourself. I'm just here to facilitate communication." Missouri sits them down in armchairs as she speaks, before moving to the other side of the table.

"Wait, if you're not gonna help us, then—"

"Don't put words in my mouth, Sam Winchester! I **am** helping you, whether you realize it or not."

Sam rolls his eyes, which… just… wow. Dean has no idea what to think of him anymore. "He's already 'communicating' with us. We don't need you to 'facilitate' anything. He doesn't—"

"Oh, messing with your radio?" Missouri says as she sprinkles a little powder onto various candles. "You call that 'communicating?' Honey, you seem to have forgotten an awful lot. If being a ghost was as easy as floating around and doing as you please, everybody'd be doing it. The boy isn't talking to you because he _can't_."

Huh. Dean tilts his head to the side. "I heard him in the car the other day, though. I know I did."

"So?" she counters without looking up. "You listen long enough, you'll hear a baby say a word or two, but that don't mean it can have a conversation with you, now does it?" Her ritual mixing comes to a sudden halt as she looks over at empty air near the room's doorway. "Oh, I know, sweetheart. I wasn't calling you a baby. I'm using an analogy to try and get through to your brothers."

Sam looks pensive for a moment, before his eyes bulge and he points at Dean. "Danashulps!"

"Oh, yeah!" Dean remembers that one. "Redrum, all that stuff."

"Now you're on the right track," Missouri says, smiling at them for the first time since they've arrived. She tosses something onto the tallest candle, creating a miniature fireburst that briefly makes other lights in the room seem dim by comparison. "This is just to make things easier, for all of you."

"So, maybe he doesn't hate us," Dean says. "Maybe all of this stuff has just been some kind of messed up way of getting our attention."

"_Nope. I definitely hate you_."

The lights don't seem dim—they _are _dim. They are barely a glimmer at this point. Even the candles seem like decades old Christmas lights, dim and decaying from disuse. Shadow creeps its way out from its thousand hiding places, no longer afraid to go wherever it pleases, with no light to chase it back home. Something is eating it—sucking it out of the very air before it can reach anything. And that _something_ is finally starting to show itself. The image forms quickly in the center of the hexagon of candles, flickering a few times like a television in need of a good kick before stabilizing into the form of Adam Milligan, looking every bit as dead as the first time Dean saw him—the _real_ him—in that crypt so long ago.

Adam stares at his ethereal hands. "_Huh_," he says, his voice a little odd, echoing slightly in the tiny living room. "_Well, this is new_."

Once again, no words will come to Dean. He has no idea what he is supposed to say to this kid.

"Don't stare," Missouri scolds them quietly. "It's rude."

Dean looks away with a cough, but still can't quite think of how to approach this.

"_Well,_" Adam says, crossing his nonexistent arms. "_You wanted to talk. I'm here. Let's talk_."

"Adam, I'm sorry," Dean starts, but the spirit is having none of that.

"_Yeah, I know you are. I'd say 'sorry' sums you up pretty well in general_." His tone is biting, utterly ruthless, and Dean winces against his will. This should not get to him like it does. The kid disavowed them, they barely knew each other, and he's far from the only one Dean has failed. Why does this one feel like it _means_ so damn much?

Before he has time to answer that question, Super Angry Action Sammy leaps to Dean's defense. "Fine. Let's skip the 'nice' bullshit and get down to business. Why are you here?"

The ghost's glare is colder than any grave. "_Nowhere else I'd rather be_."

"Really?" Sam presses. "You'd rather be here than in _Heaven_?"

Adam shrugs. "_Please. The only difference between angels and demons is the size of their egos_."

Sam's anger is resonating with Adam, and Dean feels the need to step in before things get out of control. "What happened to you, man?" he asks.

Adam snaps his unseeing eyes over to Dean. "_I _**died**_, dipshit. First, because my dad sucked. And then __**again**__,__because _you_ sucked._"

Dean sputters in response to that, which leaves Sam to pick up the slack and makes his intervention a complete failure.

"So, what?" Sam says, his voice cold. "This petty crap, is this supposed to be _revenge_ or something? 'cause I've gotta say, I'm not impressed."

At this, Adam smiles. It is about as far from a **happy** smile as you can get. "_Oh, I'm just getting started. What, you think I just popped out of the blue a few days ago? I've been with you guys the whole fucking time, and I'm just now getting good enough at the 'phantom menace' routine to actually do shit. But I'm a fast learner…_"

"Just waiting until you get good enough to kill us?" Sam sneers.

Adam laughs; a wicked, low rumble that echoes in the hollows of Dean's bones and leaves him chilly. "_Fuck, no. Way too easy. For me __**and**__ you. Nah, I'm not gonna kill you. I think I'll just follow you around and torture you. __**Forever**__._"

Sam leans forward, his face about as sympathetic as a rabid badger's. "Really? **That's** your big plan? What a load of crap. 'Oh, _boo hoo_. I got screwed by fate, now I'm gonna follow my brothers around and take it out on them.' You're pathetic. **Get a life**."

Adam's image strobes erratically, and the candles burn fiercer than ever. "_Had one. Lost it thanks to you. Don't guess you'll lend me one of yours, will you? You've got plenty of spares._"

"Sorry," Sam blatantly lies. "No dice."

"_Guess you're stuck with me, then_," Adam says with a smirk.

Sam abruptly stands up. "Ha. You think we're just gonna lie down and take your shit like a couple of bitches?"

"_I __**know**__ you are,"_ Adam sneers.

Dean's little brother stretches to his full height, seeming to tower over the entire room as he stalks towards Adam. "You don't know shit. And you sure as Hell don't know **me**. Kiss your ass goodbye, dead boy."

"_Bring it, Satan_." Adam juts out his chin in defiance.

A handful of salt blasts through the image, whisking it into nothing and returning normal lighting to Missouri's den. Sam is breathing heavily, his throwing arm still outstretched towards where the spirit of Adam stood only a few seconds ago. Dean is fucking floored. "Sam," he half-whispers. "What the **shit** was that?"

Sam just shrugs and starts to walk out of the room. "No sense in playing nice at this point. We are what we are. What's done is done. If he hasn't gotten that by now, he's not going to."

He almost makes it through the doorway before Missouri grabs him and yanks him back with some _impressive_ upper body strength. "Where do you think you're going?" she says, before shoving a Dust Buster into his chest. "You threw salt all over my living room, boy! Clean that mess up!"

It's downright shocking how fast Sam can go from heartless fury to little-boy-pouting, but pout as he might, Missouri is not moved, and eventually, Sam goes to do his chores. As he goes, Missouri quietly motions Dean into the kitchen. He follows her.

"How was that helpful?" he asks when they are out of earshot.

Missouri gives him a slightly pitying look. "I can't say for sure. The specifics are too far in the future for me to get a good handle on 'em. But I think it will help, one way or another."

The frustration threatens to detonate him. Should he laugh hysterically? Cry? Bash his head against the wall until his brain stops? All are pretty viable options at this point. "Great. Well… thanks. I guess."

"I've done all I can, Dean," Missouri chides him, surprisingly gentle despite how rude he's sure he's being. "It's gonna take more than I can do to send that boy on. In the end, it's gonna be you, Dean. Just be careful, you hear? The dead don't see the same world that we do; that's part of what makes 'em so dangerous. His view is distorted already, and the longer he's here, the worse it'll get. So don't dally."

At this point, the hunched over form of Sam shuffles into the kitchen. "I'm sorry about your couch, Missouri. I didn't mean to… I just got so…"

The older lady puts a gentle hand on Sam's cheek. "It's okay, honey. You made a mess, but you cleaned it up. _That's all that matters_." She gives him a pointed look at that last part. "But you need to be watching that anger, Sam. You keep feeding that fire, sooner or later, it's gonna burn you right up."

He nods. "Yes, ma'am. I understand."

"Good boy," she says. "Now, you better get on your way. You don't have much daylight left. You come back any time you like, you hear? It doesn't have to be business. You don't need a reason to visit old friends."

"Thanks, Missouri," Dean says.

"We'll be back. I hope," Sam adds.

"Me too," Missouri agrees with a smile.

They make it out to the car, starting to get in just as her voice reaches them again. "Oh, and boys?" They turn around to look at her. "You all did good. You did **real** good. Don't forget that, and don't ever doubt it."

She's gone before they have a chance to ask her what the Hell she means. But as Dean gets into the car, he catches Sam's eye and for the first time in what seems like years, they are suddenly on the same page. Sam smiles, and Dean smiles back. It's a nice moment.

Which, of course, means it has to be ruined as soon as he cranks the damn car.

_I'm your biggest fan,  
I'll follow you until you love me.  
Papa-Paparazzi…_

Oh, **fuck this noise**. With a slightly bestial grunt, Dean reaches into his dashboard and _rips the radio out_, tossing it into the backseat.

Sam gives him an eyebrow quirk.

"Oh, don't give me that look. You're not exactly Mr. Anger Management over there."

Sam raises his hands. "I didn't say anything. I'm just wondering what you plan on doing to keep yourself awake."

Well, shit. He didn't really think about that. "Wanna have a sing-along?"

Sam winces. "I'll pass, thanks."

Dean shrugs, before putting the car in gear. They make it to the end of Missouri's driveway in blessed silence. And then…

_YOU CAN'T STOP THE  
Motion of the ocean or the sun in the sky!  
You can wonder if you wanna, but I'll never ask why!  
And if you to hold me down, I'm gonna spit in your eye and say…  
__**You can't stop the beat!**_

Dean's head comes to rest on his horn, and the blaring sound is welcomed as it drowns out the song. If he didn't think it before, he's sure of it now; his life is officially _fucked_.

Because you **know** your life is fucked when—in addition to everything else—your fucking _radio_ comes back from the dead.

* * *

A/N: Songs used…

_Black Magic Woman_ – Fleetwood Mac  
_Every Breath You Take_ – The Police  
_A Little Less Conversation_ – Elvis Presley  
_Somebody Told Me – _The Killers  
_Cuppy Cake Song_ – Hell if I know.  
_U Can't Touch This_ – MC Hammer  
_Paparazzi_ – Lady Gaga  
_You Can't Stop the Beat_ – The Cast of "Hairspray"

I highly suggest youtubing the songs if you haven't heard them. The Cuppy Cake Song in particular has a nice Supernatural video to go with it. XD Again, I appreciate all feedback. Next update coming soon!


	4. The Sound of Madness

**Title:** Static Cling [4/?]  
**Author: **morkhan  
**Warnings:** Cursing, a slow descent into madness, and one of the most annoying songs in the history of music…  
**Characters:** Sam, Dean, Bobby, and Adam's Twisted Sense of Humor. ;)  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Word Count:** 2594  
**Summary: ** Sam and Dean turn up at Bobby's door looking like they're about two licks short of a sugar cube and two minutes away from painting his walls brain-matter pink. How did they get that way? Well…  
**Disclaimer**: Characters owned by CW and Eric Kripke. Song lyrics owned by the artists/writers/production companies.

**Author's Notes:** This chapter is where things start to get just a little _sadistic_. ;) The evil entailed here is a horror that should be perpetrated upon no living thing, and I in no way support the existence or singing of this song. That said, it _was_ a useful little tool in my arsenal of evil… muahahahahaa.

All feedback and reviews welcome. :D

* * *

The sound catches Bobby's ears just as he rustles up the last of the necessary ingredients to the ritual. Well, not _all_ of them are necessary- the incense is something he's been looking for an excuse to go buy ever since Patton (his newest guard dog) took a shit on his living room rug. He's hoping the rosy smell will at least _mask_ the shit smell, because God knows it's been harder than a yeti's tit to get rid of. The music starts off quiet, barely discernible, but gets loud real quick. So loud, in fact, that he doesn't even hear the roar of the Impala's engine underneath it until he can make out the words…

_This is the song that doesn't end,  
It just goes on and on, my friend!  
Some people started singing it,  
Not knowing what it was,  
And they'll continue singing it forever just because:  
This is the song that doesn't end…_

A door slamming interrupts the song, but the song doesn't actually **stop** until the car is turned off, and another door is slammed. He's waiting at the door when they finally knock, most of the latches undone.

Their eyes are bloodshot and sunken, but wide and awake enough for them to pass as bush babies if they weren't so damn tall. Dean in particular looks like he's on a few bottles worth of uppers and Bobby half-expects that if the boy were to cut himself on something, his blood spray would be enough to pressure wash his house.

"You have salt lines?" Dean asks, voice rough.

"Well, _duh_, I knew you were—"

Dean takes this moment to barge right in past him, Sam following shortly behind.

"Hey!" Bobby shouts. Who the Hell does he think he is?

"Oh, come on, Bobby!" Dean shouts. "You know who we are!"

"No, actually, I don't," he says simply.

Dean growls and makes an _enormous_ melodrama out of testing himself with everything he can find. "There, satisfied!"

Bobby shrugs. "More or less. Fair warning, though; next time you barge into my house like that, I'm gonna have to shoot you just to make sure. I'll try not to hit any vitals, but my aim ain't what it used to be."

Dean just flips him off and heads to the Panic Room.

Sam looks a little shell-shocked, half-awake, half-delirious. "Sorry, Bobby. 's been… a _long_ trip." There's something almost like a smile on his face, which worries him far more than anything else. "Is there still a bed in the Panic Room?" he asks.

Bobby nods. "Yeah, why do—"

The question is moot, as Sam is already headed downstairs as fast as his ostrich legs will carry him.

"What in the Hell…?" Bobby wonders aloud to no one. No one answers him.

* * *

**14 hours ago…**

"Is **that** it?" Dean shouts. "Your act is old, kid!" he spits. It's kind of stupid, but he's been feeling dumber the longer he has to put up with this garbage.

"You can't torture us with music forever," Sam says, simply. "There is no song that I can't enjoy if I try hard enough."

He will come to regret those words only _slightly_ less than he regrets unleashing the Devil upon creation.

Immediately, the gentle baritone of Barry Manilow fades into a haze of electrical interference, before returning louder than ever, with words that the Winchesters would soon come to believe truer than their own names…

_This is the song that doesn't end…_

* * *

**10 hours ago**

Dean practically rams the Impala directly into the hotel room. He has never, _ever_ been happier to get out of his car.

"I hate him," Sam says. "More than I hate Lucifer, Hell, and every demon **in** Hell."

If the Devil were to crawl out of Hell right now and offer to get rid of Adam in exchange for the world, Dean would _hug _him. He would seal the deal with a fucking fifteen-minute makeout session if he had to.

They head into the lobby. "Two queens," Dean says immediately.

"Coming right up," says the manager, a bald, mustached man of about fifty. As he reaches for the keys… _horror_ _unfolds_.

…_some people started singing it  
Not knowing what it was,  
And they'll continue singing it forever just because…_

Sam wants to cry. Dean wishes he had hair to pull out.

"Damn radio," the old manager says, smacking it a few times. "That old thing's always acting up. Ah well… hey, I remember this song," he says as he turns to Dean. "My kids used to watch that show. Anyway, that'll be—"

Dean snatches the keys from him and exits the room as fast as possible.

Sam hands the man a credit card.

"Jeez. Who lit a fire under his ass?" the manager says as he runs the card.

No one answers him, as no one is in the room.

"You forgot your card!" he calls out, but no one answers him. "Oh well, they'll be back."

They won't.

* * *

Sam enters the room, mentally singing the praises of blessed, golden silence. If only it could last.

Dean enters from the kitchenette with the salt bag. "We need to be laying down lines, before—"

_This is the song that doesn't end…_

"**FUCK,**" Dean shouts, tossing the bag of salt against the wall.

Sam, by contrast, is much more focused, immediately pinpointing the source of the sound as the clock radio on the bedside table. In a second flat, he has picked up the hateful device and crushed it into plastic shavings with nothing but his bare hands.

_It just goes on and on, my friend…_

Sam pulls out his gun.

"Sammy, no! No gunshots. Gunshots mean calls to the cops," Dean says, trying desperately to placate his little brother before he gets them killed or arrested. This time, _he_ is the one with the presence of mind to find the noise-maker. "See? It's just the TV. All we have to do is—"

The rest of the sentence is rendered useless as the broken remains of the clock radio sail through the TV screen, shattering the glass.

"…well, that works," Dean admits.

Heavy, angry breathing is the only sound in the room for a few seconds. But there is to be no quarter for them here…

_Some people started singing it  
Not knowing what it was_…

Sam grabs his hair and pulls, a primal scream shredding his throat as it escapes him.

"Where is it even COMING FROM!" Dean shouts, tiny spores of despair taking root in his heart.

* * *

**8.5 hours ago**

The answer to Dean's question is _**absolutely fucking everywhere**_.

Oh, sure, initially, it was just the TV in the room to the left. Then it was the radio in that room. Then it was the TV in the room to the left of **that**. Then it was the room to their right. Then, suddenly, just breaking the TV's screen wasn't enough—the damn speakers continued to belt out the song even after the thing was shattered, and they practically had to take it down to raw elements to get it to stop. Then the goddamn broken clock radio started singing again, distorted and warbly and with more than a little static, but the song was there, **THE SONG WAS THERE**, and it must be destroyed. Repeat (_repeat_, **REPEAT**) for every room they'd been through so far.

Dean's hands are slightly scorched from a few electrical burns. Sam's are bloody from the sheer ferocity with which he has been ruining the _shit_ of anything with speakers. He can feel cracks forming in the foundation of his brain. Pretty soon, the entire edifice is going to crumble under the vibrations of _**THE SONG**_ and Dean will be reduced to a raspberry-blowing, lip-flapping, googly-eyed, gibbering-mouthed basket case. He is seriously considering digging his own eardrums out with a spoon. But… it has stopped. The song has not been heard for over 60 seconds. There is nothing left for it to channel through, nothing left to—

The room phone rings.

The air presses them down, presses them in, weight and pressure crumpling them like vacuum-packed freezer bags. Sam is still furious, Dean is half-terrified, half-suicidal.

The phone continues to ring.

"Answer it," Sam says, motioning to it.

"You answer it," Dean counters.

"I don't want to," Sam says.

"Me neither," Dean says.

"What if there's actually somebody there?" Sam asks.

"They'll hang up eventually," Dean says.

The phone continues to ring.

"Just answer it, Dean," Sam sighs.

"**You** answer it, _Sam_," Dean snaps.

"I told you first," Sam replies, wide-eyed.

"I was born first," Dean insists.

"So?"

"So, oldest makes the rules," Dean says.

"Bullshit," Sam scoffs.

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean shrugs.

"I'll kick your ass," Sam threatens.

"I welcome the challenge," Dean replies.

"Just answer the phone!" Sam shouts.

"I don't want to! Why don't **you** answer it?" Dean shouts back.

"Because I don't _feel_ like it, **okay**?" Sam snarls.

The phone continues to ring.

"We'll both do it," Dean says, ushering Sam towards the phone. "On three. Ready? One, two, _**three**_!"

Dean fakes Sam out at the last second, but the phone is already off the hook and in his hand before Sam realizes what's happened. "Hello?" Sam says.

_This is the song—_

Dean shoots the phone. The pieces scatter violently throughout the room as Sam belatedly raises his hands to shield his face from flying plastic. The gun is smoking in Dean's hand, eyes bulging and twitchy.

"Dude," Sam says, slightly frightened.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean insists. "Just shut up! Maybe nobody heard it."

"_Somebody call the cops, I just heard a gunshot!"_

"You were saying?" Sam seethes.

Their exit is hasty and done in complete silence. At least until the Impala is cranked…

…_not knowing what it was,  
And they'll continue singing it forever just because…_

If either of them started crying at this point, neither of them ever mentions it.

* * *

**6 Hours Ago**

Dean tries retreating into a truckstop bathroom just for some peace and quiet. Unfortunately, not even the thick, concrete walls are enough to keep out **THE SONG**.

_It just goes on and on…_

Dean slaps himself in the face several times, very hard, to try and ground him for the drive ahead. If they can get to Bobby's, they can get away.

_Some people started __**s**_I**n**_g_**i**_**N**__g iIiIiIIit-t-t-t-t-t—_

The sound warps and distorts in a very worrying way, and Dean skips drying off his hands to run outside to see what further chaos has visited them.

Well, it doesn't take long to pinpoint where **THE SONG** was coming from this time: a pimped out car with an obnoxiously loud speaker system that probably costs thousands of dollars, in the perfect position to blast the sound right into the building. The sound stopped because the speakers are currently melting, because the car is on fire, because Sam threw a Molotov at it. The shattered glass around the vehicle and the very pungent smell of burning alcohol makes that much clear.

The car's owners are none too pleased by this development, but they're not exactly eager to tango with Sam over destruction of property at the moment. And with damn good reason, too.

"Sammy? It's okay, Sammy," Dean says, his own voice shaking with insincerity but still trying desperately to prop up their failing sanity. "You really don't have to—"

"_**I JUST NEED A FEW MINUTES, DEAN**_," Sam says, shuddering slightly.

"Okay, Sammy, okay, just put away the grenade, dude, nice and slow…"

* * *

**4 hours ago**

"_**I… WANT TO ROCK AND ROLL ALL NIIIIGHT… AND PARTY EV-ER-Y-DAY!**_"

They sing in unison, though in slightly different keys which don't quite harmonize. But it doesn't matter. They are sending a message. They are making a statement. It's them against the world—just the two of them, Sam and Dean, Dean and Sam, the Winchester boys, brothers 'til the end, both gone to Hell and back for the other and either would do it again. They stand united against this and all other obstacles to their mission of _Saving People, Hunting Things_™, and no smart-ass puissant little ghost is going to change that.

"_**IIIII… WANT TO **__ROCK AND ROLL ALL NIII…_ Dean?" Sam says, noticing his brother's voice mysteriously drop the line.

Dean turns tearful eyes towards his little brother, letting a single perfect tear fall upon his chiseled cheeks. "I… I can't remember the words."

…_just because:  
This is the song that doesn't end…_

* * *

**2 hours ago**

Abi bave ehafibos ehonim tusihoy orik atobiti nete aweb, aca ebieren pi se gema anibaro. Arerar ne esa la yalo le nayisap ris ewaser. Esumini dasose le nodiew aren ris irelepo cati ilida! Esare igagas fu date nutonem narek rala. Tiv ude yetenan, riseh lehatu bene hadi eha lah era, netom dimu enirele lop. Limetad otul le cesef peta? Eyebota olares nok nu coh kutegon berelol hi. Aheno get repel etoc ces eri kemiro: Nole imosega lomava enap tunecun. Orof bo penibe. Pi tes irev. Ceteqer turar vurited iyatel oren popep inor piyul tadake regigu, ugal torurin cesine etapel…

* * *

**1 hour ago**

Mah. Mah. Meh. Muh. Mih. Moh. Mee mee mah moe moo muu mo may mi meye moh mow mer mer mer mer . Miggy miggy mitzaplyxo morguy morgle mockswallop medger menkoy mairup mondash mundango middlieiddly mipswidget mipshit mordangle mundunkyfunkles…

* * *

**NOW**

Bobby enters the panic room only to find Sam and Dean snoring side-by-side on the floor, passed out and sprawled out without even taking their boots off. He has no idea what the Hell happened to these boys, but he is damn sure going to find out. If that Adam kid is haunting them and driving them this batty… well, he gets no sympathy from Bobby. Kid's as good as re-dead. He'll find out the whole story soon enough, but… for now, it's probably best to let them sleep. He watched those boys trudge their way through the End of the Fuckin' World without looking this exhausted. They're looking worse for wear, too. Dean's got some stubble bordering on a beard (and damn if he's ever seen him anything less than clean-shaven), and Sam's starting to get a little facial hair himself, and… is that… is his hair _green_?

Oh, good God. He better not be catchin' whatever got into _Dean_. Bobby still isn't exactly sure how he's supposed to look that boy in the eye now that he knows… what he knows. Should he just pretend the whole thing never happened? God knows he doesn't exactly have a _supportive_ mode, but… fuck. It's Dean. He can't just let the boy drown in his… little… crisis, or whatever.

He'll think about it later. Right now, he needs to double check the instructions on that ritual and start a pot of water boiling. They've got a complicated ritual to conduct, and it will probably be a long-assed night for everyone involved. Edging out the door as gently as he can, he closes it slowly to avoid the godawful grind, and starts back up the stairs. He gets about halfway before a racket from inside the room causes his brakes to squeal as he stops.

"_No… no, no, nonononononononono not here, __**not here**_**, IT CAN'T REACH ME IN HERE—**"

The door bursts open and out rockets Dean, hands clamped over his ears so he can't hear as his brother calls "_Dean! Dean, wait!_"

He nearly knocks Bobby off the stairs as he claws his way to the top like a fat man trying to escape a tribe of starving cannibals who have already eaten his legs. As he stumbles to his feet at the top and takes off, Bobby catches a tinny, electronic melody coming from his back pocket, strangely familiar…

_This is the song that doesn't end…_

* * *

A/N: Songs used…  
_The Song that Never Ends_ (obviously)– Lambchop's Playalong. :P


	5. Like a SaltSore Soaked in the Sea

**Title:** Static Cling [5/?]  
**Author:** morkhan  
**Warnings:** Cursing, slightly unsettling behavior.  
**Characters:** Bobby, Sam, Dean, Adam, Castiel.  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Word Count:** 3141  
**Summary: ** Bobby helps the boys wrangle their unruly ghost, and they try to reason with the kid. Silly Winchesters… 'reason' is for the living.  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. I barely own the ideas I use, randomly cobbled together from bits and pieces of things I've watched or read. Eric Kripke and the CW are the REAL geniuses here.

**Author's Notes: **Another talky chapter, but hopefully with decently entertaining conversations. There are some juicy plot tidbits here, too, so be on the lookout. This is my first 'mystery' story… I'm not entirely sure that what I'm writing fits that description, but there are several questions that need answering, and I'm slowly trying to drop hints to them all. It's tricky business, so I suppose we'll just have to see how it goes. ;) Reviews are greatly appreciated. Enjoy!

* * *

Hours later, when Sam and Dean finally trudge their way back upstairs, they look so much like zombies that Bobby's trigger finger reflexively itches just from the sight of them.

"He has **got** to go," Dean grunts.

"Speaking of which: any progress on that front?" Sam asks.

Bobby shrugs, taking the water off the stove, and using the eye to light a few more incense sticks. "It's slow going, but I've found a few things that look promising. There're a few ways we can go about it. First is to convince him to leave on his own—"

"_That_ ain't happening," Dean snorts, taking a drink of the coffee Bobby so considerately brewed for him, without even so much as a _thank you_ in return.

"Second, we get something to drag his ass into the afterlife," Bobby says.

"Something like what?" Sam asks.

"Any kind of spiritual being'll do, but it's tricky business. Reaper binding is dangerous work, and it never ends well for the binder. A demon could do the job, but good luck getting one that feels like doing you a favor, not to mention the fact that a demon taking a soul into the afterlife is going only one place with it, and I seriously doubt you hate the boy _that_ much."

"Oh, you'd be surprised," Dean grumbles.

Bobby shoots him a look, but Dean holds up his hands, momentarily out of commentary. "Third… there's a ritual we could try, but it requires a little road trip. Has to be done in a place that holds meaning for the spirit."

"Hmmm," Sam says, seemingly deep in thought. "Wait, if the ritual has to be done somewhere else, what's all this for?" he asks, gesturing to the candles and seals Bobby has been setting up and scribbling in various places.

"The ritual is one of the permanent solutions," Bobby elaborates. "This… is a temporary one." He takes a whiff of the steam rising out of the water pot, crinkling his nose a little before continuing. "It's—"

A loud crash from outside makes Dean jump, Sam growl, and Bobby feel a headache coming on. "What the Hell was that?"

"Three guesses," Sam says, with a face that looks like he wouldn't bat an eyelash paying a demon in baby souls to drag the kid to Hell with meathooks. Hell, at this point, Bobby's half-convinced that Sam is ready to do the job himself.

Peeking outside, it's hard to see much with little more than a couple of lamps and some moonlight, but a few more crashes make it easier to pinpoint the center of the action. Bobby feels a little Hell bubbling up in his own heart as he watches an invisible force smash into the cars around his lot, denting doors, smashing glass, breaking off hoods and hurling hubcaps like Frisbees.

"Does it hurt when we salt them?" Dean asks. "I'd really like to know. I say we do some tests and figure it out."

"Steady there, Dean," Bobby chides. "All in good time." He moves away from the window as the crashes continue. "Angry little shit, isn't he?" Moving to the steaming water pot, he turns on a nearby fan, setting it to pivot so it wafts the vapor throughout the room. "Alright, Dean, you're closer; get the salt and make a circle around the altar over here. Sam, there's a box in the living room on my desk. Go fetch it for me, will ya?"

The boys (though they ain't exactly _boys_ anymore, are they?) set to their tasks, and Bobby sets to his, chanting the preliminaries for the ritual and burning the powders, taking just a second to swat Dean away from the candles when he leans too close during the salt pouring. "Alright," Bobby says. "Now, all we need is something that belonged to the deceased."

"Where the Hell are we gonna get that?" Dean asks.

"Right there," Bobby says, as Sam enters with the box in his arms.

"What is this?" Sam asks, plopping the box on the counter.

"See for yourself," Bobby says.

Sam opens the cardboard flaps, sees the contents and stares at the contents with a strange, impassive look. "Are these what I think they are?"

Bobby nods.

"What?" Dean says. "What is it?"

Sam pulls from the box a slightly dusty shirt and a pair of mud-stained jeans. "These are Adam's. They're the clothes he was in when we burnt him," Sam says, still staring at the old clothes like the meaning of life is stitched in code somewhere on them. "The clothes he was revived in. When he got here, we gave him some of yours, remember?" Sam says to Dean.

"Oh, yeah," Dean says, voice low. "You kept these?"

"More like 'meant to throw them away and forgot,'" Bobby says with a shrug. "Had other shit to worry about. Works out great for us, don't it?"

Dean smiles a little. "Guess so. Nice to get a little _good_ luck for a change."

"Put 'em there, in the circle. Don't break the line," Bobby says, and Sam follows.

A little more chanting (and here Bobby notices that the crashes have stopped, and isn't sure how he should feel about that), and shit starts to get real. The lights flicker, the clothes rise into the air, and the candles spark and flare worse than a woman's temper on a forgotten anniversary. Bobby finishes with a flourish, and they don't wait long for the guest of honor to arrive.

"_Well, if it isn't Mopey Spice, Asshole Spice, and Old Spice_." The kid's spirit is every bit as smart-mouthed as his living form. Great. This is bound to go well. "_Thanks for letting me in. I was getting kind of antsy out there,_" he says, pale, thin face turning towards Bobby. "_You know how kids are. They get bored… they get into trouble. Idle hands are the devil's plaything, and all that_." He smiles, holding up his near-skeletal hands and wiggling his bony fingers.

Bobby grunts and rolls his eyes. Kid probably ruined a few good parts, but nothing more. Typical angry teenager, breaking whatever he can get his hands on… "You've got the Winchester sense of humor, alright."

"_Hey_!" Sam and Adam say in unison, insulted for entirely different reasons.

"But let's see you laugh after stewing in my kitchen for a few years," Bobby says, crossing his arms.

Adam eyes him in annoyance, and starts to move forward, only for his image to fizzle and short out when he reaches the salt line. He steps back into the circle, face crumpled in equal parts anger and pain. "_Well,_" he grunts. "_Looks like I've been ghost-busted. Whatever will I do?_"

"Rot, for all I care," Bobby says.

"_Oh, you just gonna leave me here? Deal with a spirit squatting in your kitchen for the rest of your life? I hope you don't expect rent. I'm a little short on funds._"

The old hunter shrugs. "I've kept worse than you, longer. I'm old, but I've got tons of patience. Have to, to put up with these idjits," Bobby says, nodding to the brothers.

"Hey!" Dean says.

"_You can't keep me here forever_," Adam challenges.

"We can try," Bobby counters.

"_I'll get out_," the kid says, a low threat. "_And when I do_…"

"You'll what?" Dean asks. "Force him to listen to Barney's Greatest Hits?"

Adam's ghost turns towards Dean, staring him down archly as he speaks with a voice colder than Lucifer's nipples. "_I'll kill him_."

Bobby raises his eyebrows, but schools his reaction to little more than that. Dean, on the other hand, looks like he's seen a ghost (ha), and Sam is (of course) furious.

The younger Winchester steps forward. "You said you weren't going to kill—"

"_**You two**_," Adam says, using two hands to point out both brothers at once. "_I said I wouldn't kill __**you**__. I made no promises for Grandpa."_

"You little psycho," Sam snarls.

"_Oh, that's __**rich**__ coming from the Sampire over here_," Adam says, moving towards Sam, even though he can't escape the circle. "_Drain any more __**nurses**__ lately?_"

"I did what I **had** to!" Sam shouts, closing in on his undead sibling.

"_Whatever helps you sleep at night, Satan_," Adam says, wearing the smile of an axe murderer.

"I am going to—"

"**Sam!**" Bobby shouts, pulling him back. "Calm the Hell down! You almost let him loose!" His giant foot was about an inch away from breaking the salt line, as matter of fact.

"_I'm sure you feel __**so**__ safe knowing these two have your back,_" Adam says, shaking his head.

"What happened to you?" Dean says, inserting himself into the conversation at last. "You weren't like this when you were alive."

Adam stares at him incredulous. "_What __**happened**__ to me?" _He rattles his head, like he's trying to jumble the question into a shape that makes some kind of sense. "_Did you seriously just ask that? What _**happened**_ to me?_"

Dean starts to clarify. "I meant—"

"_**What happened to me?**_" Adam shouts, damn near glowing with rage, and then… he starts laughing. Giggling, at first, but it moves pretty swiftly into chuckles, guffaws, and pretty soon it reaches breathless, hysterical levels of absolute howling lunacy. Laughing like that in and of itself is a damn fine way to creep a body out, but that wasn't what unsettled Bobby the most. What got to him were the boy's _eyes_ while he did it. They never closed. Not once, during the whole scene did his eyes shut from laughter, or even blink. They just stayed open, staring at nothing, never locking on to anything, wide and sightless and… terrified. The boy looked _terrified_.

Eventually, his howling dies down, but those eyes still keep that wide-open, thousand-yard stare.

"You don't have to stay here, son," Bobby says, trying for a kind, fatherly tone. "You can go to the afterlife. Be with your mother—" At this, Adam's head snaps to look at Bobby. "—forget all this bullcrap and get to Heaven where you belong. All you have to do is—"

"_**No**_," Adam says, shaking his head. "_I can't— I won't—not with—no, no, no…_" His image flickers as he speaks, and his tone changes erratically from one word to the next. "_No,_" he says again as he stabilizes into a calm visage. "_I'm not going anywhere._"

"Why not?" Dean asks.

"_Because I don't __**feel**__ like it!_" Adam says, instantly angry again.

"You're going," Sam snarls. "One way or another. If I were you, I'd go quietly. Because whatever **we** do will probably hurt."

"_You can't do shit, and you know it_," Adam says.

"We can," Bobby says, trying to keep everybody calm. "Sam's right. It'd be better for you if we didn't. But we can't let you stay here, son."

"_I'm __**not**__ your son!_" Adam shouts. His face doesn't transition through emotions like a human face. It just _is_. It's happy, it's sad, it's calm, it's enraged; zero to fury in a split second flicker.

"You're **losing your mind**, Adam," Bobby says, a little more urgently. "Don't you see that? You're not **you** anymore. You're _unstable_; pissed off one minute and laughing like a loon the next. It's only gonna get worse. Eventually, you won't even remember who you _are_."

Suddenly, the boy's face sheds _all_ expression. His features look chiseled out of white marble for all they move, and his eyes stare _through_ Bobby. "_Maybe that's what I __**want**_," he drones in a slightly unsettling monotone. "_Ever think of that?_"

No one has anything to say in response.

"_I'll get out of here eventually_," the spirit continues, his voice completely unchanging. "_And when I do… let's just say __**that**__ Adam will make __**this **__one look _nice_."_

With that, the boy's image vanishes, and the conversation is over. The three of them among the living give each other slightly awkward glances for a minute.

Bobby finally breaks the silence. "That went well."

* * *

They reconvene in the basement, deciding to hold conversations where the kid can't hear them so as to keep the element of surprise on their size. They file in one by one, right after Sam uses his cell to confirm that Adam is still stick in the salt (he is, sitting curled into himself, knees up, head bowed behind them like a goddamn little boy in time-out).

"Well, he definitely ain't going gentle into that good night," Bobby sighs.

"Told you," Dean says. "I knew he wasn't going willingly. Knew he was pissed. But I did not know that he was nucking futs on top of everything else."

Sam just looks drained, slightly downtrodden. "Happens to all spirits, eventually, Dean. Ghosts aren't meant to stay in the physical world."

"That's still buggin' me," Bobby says. "I've been running this game longer than you two have been breathing air, and I've _never_ seen a ghost without **some** kind of anchor. It's the only reason they can stay here at all."

"Maybe there _are_ bones, and we just don't know where to look," Dean says. "I don't know… it's hard to concentrate with him _following_ us everywhere."

"But that's another thing," Bobby says. "Ghosts are usually tied down. _Places_ are haunted, not people. He shouldn't be able to follow you like he does."

"Well, if shouldn't and buts were candy and nuts, we could feed the homeless," Dean says. "Maybe he's all super-juiced like the other monsters lately. Whatever's amping them up works on ghosts too."

"Or maybe," Sam says, brightening up just slightly, "he's not breaking the rules. Maybe he has an anchor, and he follows us because we carry it with us."

Dean gives Sam a worried look. "I think I know where you're going with this, and I don't like it."

Sam shrugs. "I don't like it either, Dean, but it fits. Think about it. The first things he did were messing around with the Impala's radio. The first time we saw him was in the car. Everything centers on the Impala—the one thing we never leave behind."

"So, what, Sam?" Dean says, beginning to pace. "You want us to salt and burn the car? Is that it?"

"If it'll get rid of Adam…"

"We are not salting and burning the car, Sam."

"Dean—"

"**We are not salting and burning the car, Sam**."

Sam throws up his hands in surrender. "Fine. Let the little undead shit ride in the back for the rest of our lives."

"Will you two put a **sock** in it?" Bobby says. "I laid out more than one option for a reason, you know. Let's leave the Haunted Car for later."

"It's _not_ Haunted!"

"_Later!_" Bobby shouts. "Now… option 1 is off the table. Therefore, we go for option 2."

"You want to summon a demon or something to drag him back to the Pit?" Dean asks, incredulous.

"Oh, _yeah_," Bobby deadpans. "Didn't you hear? I just _love_ sending folks to Hell. Crowley's thinkin' about making me head of public relations. _Of course I don't want to send him to Hell!_" he finishes with a shout. "But if I recall correctly, you boys are on a first-name basis with an Angel of Our Lord."

"You think Cas could help?" Dean asks rhetorically. "Huh. Well, that beats dragging him downstairs. Maybe Cas can convince him to find some comfort in the arms of an angel…"

The younger Winchester stares open-mouthed at his older brother. "…did you just quote a _Sarah McLachlan_ song?"

Dean looks surprised for a second, but he recovers quick. "I have an astute musical memory. And _everybody_ knows that song, dude."

Sam shakes his head fondly. "Man, sometimes, it's like I don't even know who you _are_ anymore."

The look on Dean's face is something Bobby would give damn near every book he owns to have on camera. "…you did _not_ just say that to—"

"Call your angel," Sam says with a shit-eating grin. "I'm sure _you'll _find some comfort, if nothing else."

Dean gives him a freezing glare that would have a cow dispensing soft-serve from its udders. Nonetheless, he sits down and bows his head. "Dear Castiel…"

"What?" Castiel says from right in front of Dean, and nearly everyone in the room hits their head on the ceiling from jumping at his arrival. The angel looks like his feathers are more than a little ruffled, his eyes wider than a spider-monkey's on speed.

"Cas," Dean says. "Would it _kill_ you to appear outside the door and _knock_?"

"No," Castiel says. "It wouldn't. Surely you did not call me here to ask me that."

"He called you here to ask you to help us with a little ghost problem," Sam says.

"You do understand that I am not your personal assistant, correct?" Castiel says, slightly annoyed. "I… enjoy, my friendship with you, it is very valuable, but I cannot simply appear to save you whenever—"

"We know, Cas, we know," Dean reassures him, getting to his feet. "I wouldn't call you if it wasn't urgent. The ghost… it's Adam."

This seems to give Castiel some pause. "Michael's vessel is dead?" he asks.

"Seems like it," Sam says. "We need you to carry him back to Heaven for us."

"Why did he not go on his own?" Castiel says. "If he is out of Hell…"

"Don't know," Dean says. "We were hoping you could figure something out. Or… wait," Dean says, pointing his finger. "Can you bring him back to life?"

"Are you _serious_?" Sam asks.

"Hey, if he's alive, even if he _does_ hate us, at least he can't teleport and mojo our shit," Dean says.

But Castiel's answer is clear from his expression. "I assume you do not have the body?"

"Nope," Dean says. "It's why we can't exorcise him."

"Then I cannot restore him to life," Castiel says.

"Why not?" Dean asks.

"Dean, I cannot create flesh from nothing. If angels were capable of just… _conjuring_ human bodies at will, the very concept of Vessels would be rendered meaningless. I can only restore his body if I have a piece of his remains to restore."

Dean's head falls into his hands. "Great. Well… can you at least take him upstairs with you?"

"Not against his will," Castiel says.

"Can you do _anything _useful?" Sam asks.

"I can…" the angel's reply trails off, and he vanishes from the room.

The three of amigos stand in silence. Bobby considers starting a contest to see who can twiddle their thumbs the fastest.

"…are we supposed just sit here?" Sam finally asks.

"I got no idea," Dean sighs. "Cas was never big on—"

Castiel reappears in the basement at that point. "I am sorry," he sighs. "I can't help you."

"Why not?" Sam asks, wide-eyed.

The angel's eyes are wells of misery. "I cannot take him against his will; I can only attempt to convince him to come. And that is not possible."

Dean winces sympathetically. "He hates you too, huh?"

Castiel turns his sad gaze towards Dean. "No…" he sighs, pausing for just a second before he finishes.

"He _fears_ me."


	6. Greater than God, Worse than Hell

**Title:** Static Cling [6/?]  
**Author:** morkhan  
**Warnings:** Cursing, hints of insanity.  
**Characters:** Bobby, Sam, Dean, Adam, Castiel.  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Word Count:** 3024  
**Summary: ** Cas departs for recon, and Bobby and Sam head to Windom. Meanwhile, Dean tries a heart-to-heart with his baby brother… and learns more than he ever wanted to know.  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. I barely own the ideas I use, randomly cobbled together from bits and pieces of things I've watched or read. Eric Kripke and the CW are the REAL geniuses here.

**Author's Notes: **Things are getting darker, fast. I'm trying to keep a few vestiges of humor alive here and there, but be warned that the story is probably only going to get bleaker from here. Slowly but surely, things are starting to unravel, the veil of mystery being peeled back. The only question is whether or not we will like what we find underneath…

Signs point to "no." :P I love and appreciate all reviews. Enjoy!

* * *

_Adam is aware of Castiel's presence the instant he arrives, and his reaction leaves not even a second for the angel to prepare._

"_No!" he breathes, immediately going from sitting to standing. "No, no, no, no, no…" he chants in pure breathless panic, trying in vain to back away from Castiel and continually hitting the salt line. Repeatedly attempting to breach the barrier with such abandon __**should **__cause him a great deal of pain, but he seems oblivious to all but his celestial visitor. His image flickers with the strain, and Castiel is gripped with fear for the survival of the boy's battered soul._

"_Adam, stop! I am here to help you," he tries, but upon taking one step closer, the young spirit throws his arms over his head and collapses to the ground, curling into fetal position._

"_**Please**__," he weeps, and Castiel is certain he would be hyperventilating if he possessed lungs. "No, no, no, no, no, no, nononononononononono— I'm sorry—I can't—not again—no more—__**no more**__—don't make me—_**PLEASE**_—I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't, __**I can't**__…" The chanting continues as Adam tries to curl further into himself, the words quickly losing all meaning as they become a mantra for Adam. The angel can plainly see that there will be no getting through to the boy in this state, no matter how much he wishes to help. With a heavy heart, Castiel returns to Dean…_

Two angelic fingers lift off of Dean's forehead, bringing the HD surround sound replay of Cas's experience to a sudden stop. His own heart is kind of pounding now, because… _fuck_. Castiel seriously undersold Adam's reaction. Dean has seen fear, and that? **Was not it**. _Fear_ is normal. _Fear _is healthy, even necessary. It's a survival mechanism, meant to let you know when to hold 'em, and when to fold 'em up and move 'em out with extreme prejudice. What Dean saw from Cas's eyes was not fear… it was abnormal, self-destructive, excessive irrational _terror_. If he wasn't already dead, Dean is pretty sure the kid would've _killed himself_ if he needed to in order to escape Castiel. What in the ever-living _fuck_?

"Uhhhh, Dean," Sam says, somewhat urgently. "Care to share with the class?"

"Sorry," Dean says, shaking his head. "Cas-O-Vision is a pretty intense experience."

"_Oh, that's what they're calling it these days?_" Bobby mumbles way too loud.

"Ha. And ha," Dean deadpans. "Cas was right, in technical terms. The kid is full-on angel-phobic. Had a freakin' _panic attack_, like a damn 'nam flashback."

"PTSD," Sam says, suddenly looking sick. "How bad?"

"Speaking as a man who has seen his fair share of pants-shitting terror, I'd rate that a twelve on a ten scale."

"Holy shit," Sam says, now looking a little freaked himself. Dean is pretty sure he can guess why, and he agrees; their angry condemnation of Adam looks a little different in hindsight. This isn't an average, everyday pissed-off spook. Something is seriously _wrong_ with that kid, and it looks like a good bit of it has nothing to do with his lack of flesh.

"What did you **do** to him?" Dean asks Castiel, who responds by looking slightly confused and mostly affronted. The meaning doesn't escape him for long. "Not **you**, specifically, I meant like 'you guys,' as in the 700 Club, the Cloud Chorus."

The angel shakes his vessel's head. "I do not know," he says, before catching Dean's eyes. "…but I may be able to find out."

After having gone through it so many times, Dean is finally starting to catch on to Castiel's 'exit lines,' and so he is the least surprised of anyone standing there when Cas poofs out of the room as soon as the sentence is over.

"Well, if that don't turn this whole goddamn thing upside down," Bobby grumbles, massaging his forehead. "Damn angels… feather-heads make me itch for the days when every other case was a black-eyed bag of Hell-smoke."

"**Shit**, Dean," Sam says, head leaned back against the wall, looking helpless and lost (_and familiar, oh so familiar, Sammy-boy, where the fuck have you been_?).

"Alright…" Dean says, taking charge. "This doesn't change anything, not really. We want him to go to the afterlife, **for his own good**, and now we've got a little more info to work with. I'll try to talk to him one more time—"

"Why you?" Sam asks.

"Because **you** can't seem to have a conversation with him without blowing your stack, that's why," Dean says. "In the meantime, I think you and Bobby should head on over to Windom and start on that ritual. If it doesn't pan out over here, I'll be right behind you."

"Driving _what_?" Sam asks.

Dean gives that question the '_the fuck_?' look it so thoroughly deserves.

"Dean, I know you don't like it, but I still think he might be bound to the car. The last thing we need is for him to show up during the ritual… isn't it?" Sam turns to Bobby for the last part.

"Wouldn't help," Bobby says. "He doesn't need to be there."

"Well, there you go," Sam finishes, his features now schooled back into New!Sam, all business, no pleasure.

"_Fine_," Dean grunts. "I'll drive one of Bobby's junk heaps. Or take a Greyhound. Happy?"

"Tickled pink," Sam responds with a smug smile. "Alright, so we have a plan. Bobby, what do we need for the ritual?"

"Got pretty much all of it packed into my trunk," Bobby nods. "The rest is stuff we'll have to find there." The old codger notices the looks both Dean and Sam are giving him, and bristles like an offended hedgehog. "What? What do you two think I _do_ up here all day, sit around and bake custard?"

"Aw, come on, Bobby. Those were looks of… amazement," Dean tries.

"Yeah, and if you were any more full of shit, you could fertilize half the farms in the Midwest," Bobby deadpans. "Since you're staying, feed my dog before you head out."

"Yes, sir," Dean says.

"Come on, Sam. The drive's not too bad, but this thing needs a lot of prep work, and the sooner we start it, the sooner it's done." Bobby heads up the staircase.

"Right behind you," Sam says, before turning to Dean. "Good luck with the Ghost of Christmas Fruitcake," he says with a small smile.

"Thanks. Good luck with the hours of fun in the car with an ornery old man," Dean grins.

"Bite me," Sam clips with a classic bitchface, before following Bobby's footsteps, leaving Dean alone in the basement.

Which leads him again, and again, repeatedly and forever, to _fuck_. Because he thought he might be able to help the kid… you know… deal with his torture trauma, but now he's not so sure. He _thinks_ he can relate—you know, forty years in Hell, and all that—but demons and angels are different. Similar in way too many unsettling ways, but still plenty different. Still… it's got to be worth _something_. He at least has to _try_.

If only he had any idea where to start…

* * *

It takes him a few hours to iron everything out in his head. It's about 2AM when he finally creeps into the kitchen, noting that the salt circle is still intact, and several of the candles are out, with the ones that aren't dripping wax onto the floor. He blows them out. "Hey, Adam. I wanna talk to you."

The spirit manifests in the circle, sitting on the floor with his knees curled up, looking a little worse for wear. His jacket is frayed, and his skin has _cracks_ in it; fractures in the flesh that make him look like a damaged piece of porcelain instead of a person. "_What?_" he says, his voice for once as dead as the rest of him. "_It's a little early for Stockholm Syndrome to set in._"

Dean decides to skip the banter and cut straight to brass tacks. "Look, kid, I _know_, okay? About you and angels."

Adam says nothing for several seconds. Slowly but surely, his head raises up to look at Dean. "…_you do, huh?_" he says, his tone still giving nothing away.

"You freaked out, man. Castiel told me all about it," Dean elaborates.

Adam scoffs. "_If you think you can sic your pet angel on me to scare me off…_"

"That's not what I think," Dean says, cutting him off. "And that's not what I want. Look, kid, I've been to Hell, okay? Like, literally _been to Hell_. It was some of the most awful shit—"

"_I __**know**__,_" Adam replies, returning the cutoff. "_I already told you, I've been following you guys around the whole time._"

"Well, then you know I can relate," Dean says.

"…_to what?_" Adam says.

"Being tortured," Dean clarifies.

The kid stares at him for a few seconds, before a strange smile slips onto his face. His voice is strangely high when he replies, like he's coming down off a laughing fit. "_Is that what you think happened_?" he asks.

The urge to face-palm is strong, but Dean resists. He knew this wouldn't be easy when he started it. "That's my guess," Dean says. "But I'm not sure. Why don't you _tell_ me what happened?"

"_Why?_" Adam says, his smile growing a little wider. "_So we can hug, and cry, and big brother can make it all better?_"

"I **want** to help you, kid. I swear to God. I'm sorry for—" Dean starts, sincerely, but Adam stops him cold.

"_I don't know_," he says, simply.

"…what?"

"_I. Don't. __**Know**__,_" he repeats.

And it just throws Dean's whole game out the window. "You don't **know**? So you don't even remember—"

"_Oh, I remember_," he says. "_I remember everything…_" His eyes suddenly go vacant, as he once again begins to stare at something far beyond Dean, something Dean will probably never see. "_There's… a lot. A lot to remember…_" he continues, droning gently, and shaking his head.

Shit! He's checking out on Dean, and he _really_ needs to keep the kid's head in the game. "Hey, Adam! Earth to Adam, what's going on, man? Talk to me," Dean says.

The young ghost's eyes focus once again, and this time, Dean seems to be the **only** thing they see. "_Do you know I wasn't even mad, at first?_" he asks.

It catches him off guard. It's so far out of right field it's like a home run from another stadium. "No," Dean says. "I didn't."

"_I was out, I was happy. The cage was… it was bad. But I was out. And I had you guys, even if you couldn't see me_," Adam says.

Dean nods. He's listening.

"_And I wanted… I guess… to talk, or do something, be noticed, be heard, but I just… couldn't. Wasn't strong enough… not like now. Now… I can do all sorts of stuff. I got strong when I got mad,_" he says. "_Know why I got mad?_"

Dean shakes his head.

"_Guess_," Adam probes.

What the Hell is he supposed to guess? He's got nothing to go on. "Uhhh… can I get a hint?"

Adam smiles just slightly, but there's no mirth to it. "_It was something I heard_."

Which narrows it down precisely… _none_. If the kid has really been hanging over their heads for months, there is no telling what kind of juicy tidbits of gossip he's managed to pick up on. Any one of them could have set him off. "I got nothing," Dean says.

And Adam's wicked little grin practically _explodes_, dimples appearing full force and making his fractured face even more noticeably damaged. "_Got it in one_," he says. "_I'm impressed_."

"Wait, what?" Dean asks. Is this the crazy talking? Is it supposed to make sense?

"_Nothing, Dean. Nothing is what I heard_," he says plainly, like he's discussing the weather. "_I heard all sorts of shit about Sam, about Dean. About your horrible, angsty pasts… I heard about Campbells, long lost relatives, resurrected grandparents, monsters, demons, angels, Bobby, even fucking __**Crowley**__… I heard all about them. Real fascinating. But after a while, I started to notice what I didn't hear. And what I didn't hear… was me._"

In a flash, Adam goes from sitting to standing with zero frames of transition. His voice steadily crescendos as he speaks. "_Nothing, Dean. Not a single mention of 'Adam' out of either of your fucking lying-assed mouths. Not a word, not a sentence, not even an allusion. No questions, no comments, not even a single fucking thought. The Campbells get their little monster mash, Sam and Dean get to go on killing shit, Bobby gets his soul back, Crowley gets to be King… but what about the kid who took the bullet for you? What about the kid who got pulled into this shitstorm for no other reason than to fuck with __**you**__, and then had to take every bit of the shit-ton of ass-reaming that the Heavens had been saving up? What does he get? You know what he gets? _**NOTHING.** _No second life, no family, no reward…_" And suddenly, his voice thickens up with tears Dean knows he is no longer capable of. "_He doesn't even get __**remembered**__. But __**he**__ remembers… he remembers __**everything**__…"_

Guilty as charged. Oh, so very, very guilty. No need for an escort to the gallows—Dean can walk himself, thanks. "Adam… I am **so**—"

"_No,_" he says. "_You're a lot of things. Self-centered, self-absorbed, co-dependent, obsessive, whiney, pathetic, and deluded. But you're not sorry. You wouldn't change a goddamn thing, would you?_"

Dean can't answer. He can't even think. All he can think is that this conversation was over long before it began.

"_Thought so_," Adam says. "_So here's what's gonna happen. I'm gonna get out of here. And I'm gonna hurt you. And I'm gonna like it. How's that for your little therapy session_?"

Dean stands up, and turns away from Adam to lean on the counter. "I am sorry. I don't know how I can get that through to you, but I am. And I'm gonna help you, even if you don't want it." He is out of the kitchen before the kid can reply, headed for the junkyard to find a car to drive. He doesn't even _think_ about taking the Impala. Out of all the very literal ghosts of his past Dean has ever faced, this kid might be the single most damning of them all, and Dean never wants to see him again.

* * *

_Several hours later_…

Dawn breaks gently, the sun pouring light over the horizon like a fresh cup of orange juice, but Adam doesn't see the sun. A rooster crows somewhere in the distance, heralding the start of a hard day of work for someone, but Adam doesn't hear the rooster. The smell of fresh, pure dew hangs heavy in the still morning air, but Adam doesn't smell the dew. The new day is cool, a moist chill that sinks into your clothes, but Adam doesn't feel the coldness. He doesn't see, hear, smell, touch, or, god forbid, _taste_ much of anything, really. But he knows. He knows what's around him, nonetheless.

He knows, for example, that there is a large junkyard dog currently scratching at the kitchen's outside door, wondering where its master is and where its morning meal is. He knows that the door is meant primarily to keep out monsters and devils, more of a mystical than a physical barrier, but that it's tough to get through when it's closed with the dozen or so locks fixed on it.

And he knows that Dean didn't lock a single one of those when he left last night.

"_Help!_" Adam cries, not in his own voice, but in an absolutely pitch-perfect imitation of Bobby Singer. "_Goddamnit! HELP! I CAN'T… __**SOMEBODY GET ME SOME GODDAMN HELP!**_" he cries. The giant mutt is whipped into a frenzy by this, barking and baying and scratching at the door. It just needs a little more encouragement. "_**HERE, BOY! COME IN HERE AND HELP ME! COME ON, BOY! BOBBY NEEDS YOUR HELP!**_" The commotion near the door reaches a crescendo, and soon, over a hundred pounds of pure muscle and animalistic fury come barreling through the door, the single latch not nearly enough to keep the animal out. Adam smiles, as the dog notices him immediately and starts growling fiercely.

"_Bring it, Fido_," Adam sneers, making a sudden movement forward as if to strike. The dog barks loudly, and charges forward… his head passing straight through Adam's incorporeal body, and scattering the formerly perfect circle of salt all over the kitchen. The sense of freedom is palpable—it hits his awareness in an altogether wonderful way, and he _almost_ feels alive again.

Fido is thoroughly confused, but still growling. Adam turns around and takes one look at the mutt. Maybe he should kill it. Just out of spite for them keeping him here like this… except… nah. All of his fury is saved for two very special people, and he _knows_ exactly where to find them. No… Fido here deserves a little break for helping him out like this.

Two minutes later, the house of Bobby Singer stands with one door wide open, swaying gently back and forth in a slight breeze. Inside of that door, Bobby's newest guard dog, a mutt named Patton, happily munches on an entire bag of dog food spilled all over the kitchen, careful to avoid the grainy white stuff that it sometimes mixes with, as it makes it taste funny. He will keep watch over the property while the master is away. There was one intruder here already, but the dog is pretty sure he scared him off, as he no longer senses any danger. He is a good dog, and he hopes his master will reward him when he gets home.

And about an hour and a half to the east, the town of Windom collectively looks up to a sky full of darkening gray clouds, and prepares itself for a storm…


	7. Thunderstruck

**Title:** Static Cling [7/?]  
**Author:** morkhan  
**Warnings:** Cursing, teeth-rotting cuteness, violence! In that order.  
**Characters:** Bobby, Sam, Dean, Adam  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Word Count:** 5100  
**Summary: ** Sam and Dean commit a heinous invasion of privacy. Adam takes his privacy pretty fucking seriously.  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. I barely own the ideas I use, randomly cobbled together from bits and pieces of things I've watched or read. Eric Kripke and the CW are the REAL geniuses here.

**Author's Notes: **VIOLENCE! Finally, there is some action in this story. XD I can't seem to write a story without throwing in a gratuitous action scene or two. Probably being raised on all those violent video games… ah well. It's a violent world. Well, it's a violent show, anyway. ;) Reviews are greatly appreciated.

* * *

The drive to Windom from Sioux Falls is a little under two hours, going the speed limit. Which means that even in Bobby's clanking pile of scrap held together with duct tape and magic wishes, he does it in an hour twenty-five. And only because he got stuck behind a chicken truck at one point.

"I'm on my way," Dean says into his cell.

"_I take it your pow-wow didn't go too well?_" Sam replies from the other end.

"Like a triple somersault high dive into an empty pool."

"_Ouch_," Sam says.

"Tell me about it. So, exactly where are you guys?"

"_At the home of Kate Milligan_," Sam says, sounding slightly distracted.

"…the Hell? It's still there? They didn't sell it?" Dean asks.

"_They can't, because Kate Milligan isn't 'dead' yet. We burned her body, and the bodies of the ghouls. No body, no death certificate, so under common law, nobody can touch her stuff for a few more years_."

"Huh," Dean says. He never really thought about what happened to people after he and Sam blow through. Well… he occasionally thinks about what happens to the living. He never thought about the dead ones past cremation. "And what exactly are you doing at Kate Milligan's house?" Dean says as he turns left at a red light.

"_Why, digging through dead people's possessions to find objects of value to use in an occult ritual, what else?_" Dean knows that Sam only _sounds_ sarcastic—this is practically just another day on the job for them. In a way, it feels almost nice. Not being followed around by the smell of teen spirit, no longer floundering for answers that may or may not exist… just identifying a problem, finding a solution, and putting it into action. It's a hunt again.

_Only you're hunting family,_ Dean's asshole brain reminds him. All the forces of destiny and the afterlife seemed determined for him to hunt down and destroy his brother. And now, apparently, they're long past caring about which brother it is.

"Any luck?" Dean says, jumping back into the conversation after he realizes Sam is probably wondering if the line went dead.

"_None whatsoever_," Sam cheerfully informs him. "_For one thing, we don't know Adam from… well, _Adam_, but to make matters worse, the place has been broken into and robbed. __**Several**__ times._"

Dean shakes his head. "Ah, humans."

"_Gotta love 'em_," Sam finishes. "_Anyway, they didn't take everything, so there's bound to be something here we can use. The search should go a little faster with your help. You know the way_?"

Dean shrugs. "You kidding me? I'm like a human GPS. I am a freaking navigational savant, dude. Surely you know that by now."

"_Yeah, Rain Man, you're an excellent driver,_" Sam quips. "_See you soon._"

Dean flips his phone shut and drives on. It's the darkest part of the night—just before dawn, of course, fucking symbolism. He takes a look at the speedometer, and decides he's still underachieving in the law breaking department. Pushing the pedal to the floor, he lets the momentum push Adam to the back of his mind. Hopefully, he'll stay there for a while.

* * *

Haunted houses are creepy. Of that, there's no doubt. The older ones are almost a cliché at this point, but there's still something that just gets Dean's skin crawling about a place, obviously once lived-in, slowly falling to pieces with everything inside still intact. If the actual bodies were corpses of people, the houses were the corpses of the lives they lived, both slowly rotting into mockeries of their former selves before crumbling into nothing.

But the old ones, imposing though they are, have nothing on _new_ haunted houses. Places that look like you could've lived there—that anyone you know could've been living there, just a little while ago. It's the uncanny valley, or whatever it's called. The closer something is to the way it's supposed to be without _quite_ being there, the creepier it somehow becomes. From the outside, it looks like anyone's house. A few of the windows are taped up where they've been broken, and there are no lights on, but other than that… it looks just like any other house on the street. And yet… there's just something… _off_ about it.

"Hey," Dean says, as the phone connects to Sam. "I'm here. Where're you?"

"_Attic. Come in through the back._" The call ends there.

Inside, of course, is even creepier. Dean enters through the door to the kitchen. There's a layer of dust, almost thick enough to be a _film_ draped over pretty much everything. At a glance, it seems like a normal kitchen in the darkness. It's only a thorough second look that reveals several objects to be illusions—shapes of things that used to be there, perfectly outlined in dust, the looters taking what they wanted and not touching a damn thing more. Place stinks to Hell—a pungent mix of mold and mildew and old, rotten food. Dean is willing to bet that whatever was in the refrigerator the last time he was here is still there, rotten and oozing out of its containers. With his luck, it'll congeal into some kind of monster and try to kill him. Attack of the Fucking Leftovers.

Dean remembers this house. It seems like forever ago since he was last here, with that sick fuck of a monster masquerading as their blood to get a taste of Sammy's. He remembers the pictures of John, smiling like a jackass with a boy he had never met in his fucking life, remembers and most definitely _does not_ look at those pictures as he passes by. Instead, he looks at the wallpaper, which has already started to crack in places, peeling away like sunburned skin. Dead. Toast. Finished. It's strange what a couple of years of no heat in winter or air in summer will do to a place. It's easy to take stuff like this for granted. You don't miss it 'til it's gone.

The attic is easy enough to find—it's open and waiting for him, after all. It's one of those things that's almost _too_ convenient, and while Dean doesn't really think he should expect any bad surprises, given the general ambience of the place, he decides to keep a hand on his weapon just in case.

When he reaches the top of the ladder, he finds Sam and Bobby… watching TV?

"Dean," Sam nods. "Pull up a seat."

"What're we watching?" Dean asks.

"Home movies," Bobby says in a voice that tells him all he needs to know about the excitement documented here.

"Okay… little creepy, but I'm guessing there's a reason for this," Dean says, sitting down in front of the TV. On it, a much smaller Adam runs around a much cleaner version of the kitchen he was just in, using the stretchy straps on his party hat to sling-shot it at his friends, and trying to dodge the returning volleys. It's a full-blown hat war.

"We tried to set up the ritual, but we hit a little snag. It needs a place, _and_ an object that the spirit cherished in life," Bobby says.

"Bobby found a generator in the basement that still works. Most of the good stuff downstairs is gone, but no one came up here, so we were able to rig up this old TV and VCR. We figure that there has to be _some_ kind of happy childhood memento for us to invoke," Sam says.

"Okay… I still don't get why we're watching dead people's family memories," Dean says. On screen, the hat war has abated, and Adam and his friends seem pretty content playing with dinosaurs and eating each other. There's some definite food chain confusion going on as some kid tries to use a brontosaurus to eat Adam's T-Rex. Adam, for his part, is playing along.

"Intel," Bobby states, simply.

"The more cherished the object, the more likely the spell is to actually work. And we _really_ don't have time to set up and invoke a new spell for every piece of crap up here," Sam says. "So we're seeing if we can get any clues from these."

The logic in that is fairly sound. "Any luck so far?"

"We've got bupkis," Bobby grunts.

"There were a couple of things that looked promising, but they've either been stolen or just plain lost," Sam says. Dean notices for the first time that there's something a little odd about Sam's expression, even if it doesn't quite come through in his voice. He looks a little _sad_.

Well, it doesn't get much more depressing than watching videos of your dead little brother to try and figure out how to send him to an afterlife he's desperate to avoid.

"Well, alright," Dean says, trying to adjust himself into a more comfortable position. "A marathon of Adam Milligan, This Is Your Life. I've sat through worse…"

* * *

Dean is a glutton for his own words. He can't stop eating them.

"This was a fucking stupid idea," Dean says, leaning on his elbow and trying desperately not to fall asleep. Bobby has already nodded off. Dean envies the old coot. "Where the fuck did she even get the time to record all this?"

"There's really not that much here," Sam says. "At least, not compared to most people with a camera. From what I can tell, she hasn't recorded that many _events_… it's just that when she _did_ record—"

"She taped absolutely. Fucking. Everything," Dean finishes. Seriously, it's like she didn't know cameras had an 'off' button, and thought the only way to stop recording was to let the battery run out. "**God**, this is boring. And not helpful. Like, at all." Seriously—Adam was a cute kid, he'll give her that, but _sheesh_. Editing is truly the soul of film-making.

Sam, nerd that he is, doesn't seem bored in the slightest. "There has to be _something_ we can use," he says, popping in the next video.

Dean opens his mouth to call Sam several things that should not be repeated in polite company, but what actually pops up on tape brings it to a shaky stop at the edge of his teeth.

"_Oh my God, he's doing it!_" Kate says excitedly from behind the camera. "_I __**have **__to get this on tape_," she says as she rounds the corner, keeping most of herself just behind the wall as she tries to film covertly. What she's filming is Adam, the youngest they've seen him yet, just a toddler. He's in the living room, bent over with his head on the ground, pushing it around and dragging it along the ground like the front end of a bulldozer. It's… well, it's weird as hell, but it's also… well, it's just a little bit… you know… adorable, or _whatever_. Maybe.

Wee little Adam continues to diligently push his head on the carpet, until Kate finally makes herself known.

"_Adam_," she says, and Widdle Adam on the screen comes to a halt (though his head's still on the ground). "_Awww, sweetie, are you tired?_" she says gently.

Widdle Adam seems to take a second to consider this. "_Uh-huh_," he says, nodding sagely (and, of course, rubbing his hair on the carpet, as he seems to have no intentions of hefting his head upright any time soon).

He can almost hear Kate Milligan's smile. "_Is it time to go to sleep?_" she says.

Widdle Adam's answer comes much faster this time. "_Nuh-uh_," he says, shaking his head.

She laughs, shaking the camera just a little. "_But you need to, sweetie. If you don't, you'll just always be tired. Do you want to always be tired?_"

Widdle Adam shakes his head. "_Nuh-uh_."

"_Well, I'm glad. You're cranky when you're tired_," she teases.

"_Nuh-uuuuh!_" Widdle Adam denies indignantly, proving her right.

"_Okay, so let's try this again. Is it time to go to sleep?_"

The on-screen baby thinks for just a second before nodding reluctantly. "_Uh-huh_."

"_That's my good boy_," she says, putting the camera down on a side table. "_Come to mama_."

"'_kay_," Widdle Adam says as he diligently pushes his bulldozer-head over to her. Kate steps into frame and pulls him up, and Adam takes no time at all to latch onto her and snuggle into her shoulder. From there, she steps back over to the camera, and all Dean hears is a few clicks as she presses the buttons to turn the camera off (oh, she **does** know how).

Nothing else seems to be on that tape. It runs in silence for a minute before Sam reaches over to eject it, filling the room with the sound of white noise. Hints of sunlight are starting to peek in through the cracks in the attic. It's sunrise already?

"Well, cute as that was, it was, once again, not helpful," Dean says, trying to keep his emotional levees intact from the massive flood of glurge and stupid saccharine sweetness currently trying to drown him in estrogen.

Sam doesn't say anything, and Dean notices something is a little… _off_ in Sam's posture. He's seen this before. "Dude, are you _crying_?"

"**No**," Sam denies, entirely too quickly.

"You _are_!" Dean says, pointing to him. He gets up and moves around to look at Sam's face, and sure enough, there are tear tracks running down the sides. "Oh, for crying out loud. For the last time, do you, or do you _not_ have ovaries?"

Sam's teary-eyed bitchface is one for the ages. "Fuck you, Dean," he says.

Dean smiles, but truth be told, the more he thinks about it, the more he's starting to wonder. Not about the ovaries, of course. But about other things. "Seriously, Sam. Do you feel sorry for the kid, or don't you? I mean, it's like one minute you want to give him a hug, the next, you want to jam a corkscrew up his nose and pull out his brains."

Long fingers come up to massage the bridge of Sam's nose. "I'm trying to stay—"

He stops.

"What?" Dean asks.

"The TV," Sam says.

"What about it?"

"There's no noise."

Dean tunes his ears in and notices that, yeah, the sound is off. "…okay. There are a couple of reasons this could…"

His sentence is interrupted as the TV's speakers start making sound again. But this time, there's no white noise… instead, it's an electric guitar, a single note being plucked low and steady in triplets. It's the beginning of a song, one Dean _swears_ he recognizes but can't quite name. It's a moot point, anyway, as it's not the song, but the meaning behind it they've got to worry about.

"_Shit_," Sam says.

"Bobby!" Dean shouts, running over to the old hunter to shake him awake and nearly getting decked for his trouble. "Dude, wake up!" he says, pulling him to his feet.

"Whur's'dam'fire?" Bobby grumbles, only for Sam to shove the tape, and several other items into his arms.

"Bobby, take this stuff and get it somewhere safe. Set up a perimeter, we'll be right behind you," he says.

"Why?" Bobby asks, still not fully awake.

Dean sighs. "Our spook is loose."

And the song begins…

_All my life  
I've been searching for something  
Something never comes  
Never leads to nothing  
Nothing satisfies  
But I'm getting close  
Closer to the prize at the end of the rope..._

Bobby looks like he wants to stay, but Dean puts that to rest. "Bobby, _please_. He won't kill us, but he might kill you."

_All night long  
I dream of the day…_

The old hunter shakes his head and boogies over to the ladder, while Sam and Dean prepare for a fight. Because Dean knows this song, and it's no joke.

_When it comes around  
Then it's taken away…_  
_Leaves me with the feeling  
That I fear the most…_

A shotgun, locked and loaded with rock salt flies through the air and lands in Dean's outstretched hand, the opening steps of a dance they know by heart.

_Feel it come to life  
When I see your ghost._

"**Boo**_._"

Adam pops out of the air in front of Sam, and thrusts his hand at the giant just as the giant aims his shotgun. Both hit their mark—Adam's spiritual body is blasted into vapor by sodium chloride, and Sam (along with Dean) go flying through the air, landing ass-first on a box of Christmas ornaments. From the sound of things, very few of them survive the impact.

"_Fucking creepers_," Adam's voice says from somewhere far above them. "_Stay out of my stuff._"

"Right back at ya, wispy little fart," Dean grunts.

Sam says nothing as he hefts himself off the box. He probably doesn't even notice it, but when he gets up, Dean can see large pieces of a busted nutcracker embedded in his jeans.

A whirling sound makes Dean's ears twitch, and he moves his head just in time to avoid taking a picture frame to the forehead. His legs kick back and shoot forward to catapult his own glass-encrusted ass back on his feet. Several more picture frames spin through the air towards them, like priceless memories encased in ninja stars. Dean opts for a running dodge, guessing (correctly) that Adam doesn't have much experience at hitting a moving target. Sam moves backwards steadily, doing the occasional pivot to let a frame brush past, even deflecting one with his shotgun. He seems to be looking for Adam so he can shoot him, but really, that _really_ shouldn't be their priority at the moment.

"Sam!" Dean shouts. "Come on, dude!"

"Where are you," Sam growls as he steadily scans the room.

"_Everywhere_ _you want to be, asshole._"

It's a cue for him to try something. Sam knows it, Dean knows it, but does Adam _know_ they know? Apparently so, because while Sam is prepared to take an attack from pretty much any direction, he is in no way prepared to have the fucking floor blasted out from under him.

"Sam!" Dean shouts uselessly as he stupidly, _stupidly_ runs over to the hole his little brother just disappeared into. Icy shivers creep up Dean's spine, and he turns to find Adam glaring at him from about two microns away, eyes practically radioactive with rage, shining, hateful, and… moist? Is he _sad_? "Adam…"

"_You got __**some **__nerve coming here,_" he growls. And suddenly, there is an ectoplasmic fist planted in Dean's gut, sending him through the same hole as Sam in a perfect _swoosh_. And of course, because the universe hates them _both_, Dean lands right on top of Sam. The jingling of broken glass tells him that yes, he _did_ have plenty of holiday cheer attached to his rear, and _yes_, those were definitely genuine glass ornaments because Sam is cursing and shouting like Dean just stabbed him several times.

"_**SHIT**_, Dean! **FUCK**, get **off**!" Sam says, trying to hulk out from under him with sheer strength. The need to do so is promptly removed when Dean is automagically pulled into the air and thrust through the door into the hallway, where Adam's super dead kid force powers keep him pinned to the drywall. He isn't sure exactly when he dropped his gun, but he knows it ain't in his hand, which leaves him pretty much screwed to high heaven and back.

Adam appears in front of him, and wraps a set of ghost fingers around his throat. It feels roughly akin to being strangled by popsicles. "_You made me come here… you're trying to make me remember, aren't you?_" he growls, squeezing very, _very_ hard and okay, maybe Dean should start questioning that whole 'he won't kill us!' thing, because… oxygen? Anyone? Sometime soon would be nice.

The gunshot that heralds Adam's disappearance is like a hallelujah chorus for Dean's lungs. At least _one_ of them kept hold of their weapon. "Come on!" Sam says, grabbing Dean and pulling him towards the kitchen. His shotgun finds its way back into his hands from Sam's. So **that's** where it went.

They make it as far as the dining room before Adam appears in their path. "_You left or right handed?_" he growls. "_I need to know which arm to cut off_."

Sam aims and fires, but Adam bamfs away easily, appearing right next to Sam's outstretched arm. "_Right it is!_" he says, a wolfish grin appearing as he grabs Sam's arm, with each hand on one side of his elbow, and _snaps it like a fucking twig,_ just before Dean is able to blast him away.

To his eternal credit, Sam does not scream. He does, however, give a Hell of a shout before he abruptly closes his mouth to stop himself from puking all over the filthy carper. "Come on, Sammy," Dean says, wrapping Sam's good arm around his shoulder.

"Well… I guess… he's **not** haunting… the car," Sam grits through clenched teeth.

"Yeah, thank Heaven for small miracles," Dean quips, about halfway through the kitchen before the refrigerator door swings open _just_ in time to blindside him and knock him over onto Sam, bending his arm even _further_ in ways nature did not intend. This time, he definitely _does_ scream, and Dean can't blame him. And to make matters about a hundred thousand _jillion_ times worse… well, he called it. He fucking called it. _**Attack of the Fucking Leftovers.**_ Gobs and globules of filthy, tepid, stinking rotten slime fire out of the fridge like it's launching artillery. Biological warfare. The dirtiest bomb in the history of dirt…

"_You know, it's kind of fun, kicking your asses. I can see why it's such a popular pastime,_" Adam sneers from nowhere.

Dean almost opens his mouth to retort, but remembering what he's currently covered in slams it shut and seals it with a welding torch. Besides, Sam seems to have it covered. "Come out and say that to my _face_, you snide little shit!" the larger Winchester snarls, shrugging Dean off of him as easily as a blanket and rising to his feet.

Adam doesn't take the bait. "Come on!" Sam shouts, something dripping from one of his bangs (ew, ew, _ewww_, Dean is kind of glad he doesn't have hair for this crap to get in). But still Adam doesn't answer.

"Fuck it, let's go, Sammy!" Dean says, trying to pull him over to the door, but the refrigerator apparently isn't done fucking with them yet, as it wrenches itself from its customary spot and plants right in front of the door before Dean can stop it. "**Fuck!**"

Wood on wood, the sound of drawers being forcibly wrenched open. This heralds nothing but pain for them.

"Shit, he's pulling the silverware," Dean says.

"He's in here," is all Sam replies.

"I fucking know that!" Dean shouts, running into the dining room and hearing the dull _thunk_ of a knife being embedded in the wall somewhere behind him. Moving target, you little shit…

"No, I mean he's _in here_. Even if we can't see him, he's _physically_ _somewhere in this room_," Sam says, as he dodges behind a corner, barely avoiding a volley of spoons

He makes a mighty good point. Dean pulls out his cell, switches over to the camera function. Sam does the same. A quick sweep of the room reveals nothing interesting, but when they barge into the dining room, they find their ghost. But it's not exactly what they expect…

Adam's back is turned to them. He is staring at one of the pictures Dean definitely _definitely_ did not look at. He is no longer attacking them, no longer even seems _interested_ in them. It's the perfect opportunity to escape. Which is probably why Sam decides to _ruin it_ by raising his shotgun and firing into Adam's back, turning him into ghost dust again. It isn't until Adam has vanished that Dean can get a good look at what he was gawking at.

It was a framed picture of Kate Milligan. Dean says '_was'_ because _now_ it's not much of anything recognizable as a picture. "Sam! What the fuck?"

"He was distracted," Sam says, turning towards Dean and wincing.

"I **know**! We _run_ when he's distracted, not… nevermind." Sam looks _really_ pained at the moment, eyes big, moist and unfocused, teeth clenched tight. Dean decides to chalk this little misstep up to having a freshly broken arm and being covered in slop and thus unable to think clearly.

"_**Now I'm **_**really **_**pissed…**_" Adam's voice seems to come from all around them.

"And **that's** our cue to leave. Let's go!" Dean shouts.

As they head towards the _front_ door, Dean feels something that makes his hair stand on end… but it isn't the frigid feeling of a phantom presence. It's different, more familiar somehow, more mundane. It prickles at his skin, makes him aware of every inch of it. It glues his clothes to his body, raises his hackles, and tingles almost like… _static_.

Dean feels Sam shove him over to the side before dodging away himself, just in time to avoid the searing bolt of light that splits the air between them. A sharp crack, as loud as any shotgun, accompanies the blast, momentarily robbing Dean of his hearing as he scrambles to get upright and figure out what the fuck just happened.

Adam's ghost stands in the hallway, one hand outstretched, a look of absolute _shock_ on his face. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean catches Sam with a near-identical expression. Dean feels like the only one who doesn't know what just happened, but he keeps looking at Adam—**there**. A little arc of electricity leaps between Adam's fingers, and…

Wait.

What.

No.

**No**.

Absolutely freaking not. No **fucking** way. There is absolutely freaking no goddamn fucking way that Dean is going to accept—

"Did you just **throw lightning at us**?" Sam asks.

Adam raises spectral eyebrows. "_…uhhh, yeah._" He tilts his head to the side. An erratic orange light catches Dean's attention; a curtain is on fire. The kid just threw lightning at them and set a curtain on fire. "_…I didn't know I could do that_," he says in awe.

"Huh," Dean says, voice effused with the fakest nonchalance ever faked. "And to think, all this time I was worried about _you_ going to the Dark Side, Sammy."

Sammy looks like he's trying very hard not to look amused. Adam full-on smiles, in the way a monkey 'smiles' at you before it punches your face off and bites through your neck.

"Oh, shit," Sam deadpans, before Adam launches into a truly epic Emperor Palpatine routine.

"_**POWER**_," he hams at the top of his nonexistent lungs, letting loose with another volley of electric boogaloo in their general direction. Either the kid sucks or lightning is harder to aim than it looks, because Dean dodges _way_ too late and most of it still goes around him. That in no way makes it any less _scary as jesus-christ-__**fuck**_, and it manages to spark a few more fires.

"_**UNLIMITED… POWER!**_" he cries as he launches a bolt at Sam, who fails to dodge even worse than Dean—and unlike Dean, he pays for it, taking the bolt full on and wildly spasming before collapsing to the ground and _smoking_. And not moving. Sammy is on the ground, _smoke rising off of his body_, and he is not moving. And the house is on fire. **The house is on fire, and Dean's little brother just got flash-fried by his other little brother who is already dead and some kind of ghost and ALSO APPARENTLY A FUCKING SITH LORD, BECAUSE, YOU KNOW, THE REST OF IT JUST WASN'T QUITE SHITTY ENOUGH**. There are no words to properly describe how fucked all of this is.

Dean blows his cover spectacularly and doesn't even care, as Adam seems to be distracted with flexing his newfound thunderballs. All around him, circuits and outlets in the walls overload and explode, sending sparks everywhere and starting more and more mini-blazes that probably won't stay mini for very long. He slides the last few feet on his knees, reaching Sam and shaking him like a bag of potatoes. "Sam! _SAM._Wake up!"

His hair stands on end again, and Adam has him up off the ground before he can even think of shooting. The kid stares him right in the eyes as he speaks. "_Don't worry. He'll live. And so will you. You're both gonna live a nice, __**long**__ time. Little brother'll make sure of that… oh, man. This was __**fun**__. I can hardly wait 'til next time…_" He draws Dean in for the final malediction. "_And don't give me that look. I fucking __**told**__ you, didn't I? Maybe next time, you'll listen_." Dean opens his mouth to reply, but his words just wind up being swallowed by an agonized scream as Adam proceeds to find each and every one of Dean's nerve endings and pump each of them with enough juice to light him up like a fucking Times Square billboard. His vision fades to white, and his abused brain finally throws up his hands, says 'fuck this noise' and quits for the day.

Blackness follows.

* * *

His consciousness comes in waves after that. Next thing he notices, he is sprawled on the lawn outside the Milligan's household, unable to turn his head away as he watches it burn to the ground. The water recedes, and Dean is out again. The next wave comes with a face. Guy in uniform. Paramedic, EMT, and Dean is in the back of an ambulance. The guy's mouth moves, but his words are so echo-y and distant that they all run together, and Dean doesn't get any of it. The tide goes out again. When it comes back for the final time, Dean is being loaded onto a stretcher just outside the hospital. There are a lot of numbers and letters being thrown around, but Dean's way too out-of-it to connect any of the dots to form a picture, and besides, he can already feel the wave going back out again. Hopefully, these nice people are getting ready to load him up on some of the good stuff so he can float on the ocean instead of just laying on the beach.

The last thing he hears is a sing-song little voice, barely a whisper, bidding him farewell as he falls into the void…

"_Get well soon._"

* * *

**A/N: ** Song used this chapter…  
_All My Life_ – Foo Fighters

**ALSO**: Fun fact—the original name for this chapter was "Adam Milligan and the Winchesters: The Lightning Ghost." XP


	8. Heaven Help Us All

**Title:** Static Cling [8/11]  
**Author:** morkhan  
_**SERIOUS WARNING**_**:** On top of the usual cursing, this chapter contains graphic violence, mentions of suicide, cruelty, and insinuations of sexual abuse.  
**Characters:** Dean, Sam, Castiel, Adam (flashback), OCs.  
**Rating:** _**M**_ (this chapter only)  
**Word Count:** 7665  
**Summary: **Dean wakes up in an accidental sanctuary, and Castiel returns with news that he wishes he did not have to give. The truth of Adam's consent is finally brought to light.  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. I barely own the ideas I use, randomly cobbled together from bits and pieces of things I've watched or read. Eric Kripke and the CW are the REAL geniuses here.

**Author's Notes: **This… this is bad, guys. It's really, very bad. If you've read any of my other stories, you'd know to expect a little sadism, but even I was slightly surprised at how horrible the situation wound up being. _**PLEASE**_ read the warnings at the top of the page before continuing so you know what to expect.

Hell, this is so bad that I wound up adding a small section of near-slapstick comedy before it started just to lighten things a bit.

This is the first of the two Big Reveals. I tried to hint at this beforehand, and I even included little flashbacks to previous chapters to highlight some of those instances. I hope the formatting here isn't too hard to follow.

Oh, and finally, there is an OC in this chapter who is fairly important to what happens during it. For reference, this character (Jophiel) is, in my mind, played by Andrew Garfield, also known as 'Eduardo' from _The Social Network_, and the New!Spider-Man.

As always, I love and appreciate all reviews. I hope you enjoy.

* * *

It's not the first time he's woken up to the steady beep of a heart monitor. He'd kind of like it to be the last, but he knows that's about as likely as him pooping out a solid gold turd the next time he's on the can. He opens his eyes to get a look around, but upon seeing that he is apparently in a hospital in the _center of the sun_, he decides it's a little too bright in here and closes them tight again. Instead, he concentrates on his other senses, which seem to be working alright. He _feels_ all light and tingly, probably surfing on a wave of pure morphine at the moment. Besides the beep beep beeping of his ticker watcher, Dean hears the steady drums of raindrops on a windowsill. The smell of sterility and antiseptic is strong. These are _astoundingly_ nice sheets for a hospital. Having thoroughly assessed his surroundings, he moves on to self-assessment.

Standard procedure when waking up in a hospital. Flex every muscle he can name, make sure all the wires are still rigged up where they should be. He makes it to his left arm before he notices a problem—namely, that he is handcuffed to the bed. Fortunately not a wiring problem, but a definite mobility challenge, nonetheless. Whatever. He can deal with that later. Right now, he's got to make sure all of his important bits are present and in working order.

After making it all the way down to his toes with little issue (though quite a bit of pain here and there, and he doesn't even want to _imagine_ what that would feel like without the morphine), he moves from the physical to the mental checklist. He is Dean Winchester. He is the son of John and Mary Winchester, born January 24, 1979. He is an Aquarius, he enjoys sunsets, long walks on the beach, and frisky women. He is currently in the hospital because he and his younger brother, Sam Winchester, have a secret undead ghostly half-brother with a grudge and a heavy-duty kink for shock therapy. Minus the therapy.

Alright. So _Dean_ is alive and in mostly working order, perfectly capable of looking towards priority number 2—where the fuck is Sammy?

Though his peepers would much rather cower in the back of his skull to hide from the scary bright white, Dean forces them to look upon the world and take in all its glory. It's not much. Standard issue hospital non-descript, one window, one bed, a few chairs and a bunch of medical crap. It's night outside, which means he's been out for a while. And he's definitely not in the same room as Sam, which… _shit_. He needs to know where Sam is. Like, _right the fuck now_, except there is no one for him to ask, no phone for him to use, and he's chained to the chucklefucking bed. So… yeah. Options, he could use a few of them.

The cops probably think he and Sam burned the house down. Which is only true from a very technical standpoint, so no need for him to stay in lockdown for very long. It's not like anyone is going to press charges against him for destroying their stuff.

Speaking of which… where _is_ the ghost with the most? Dean can't see him, but that in no way means he isn't hovering around somewhere, gloating over his victory, replacing their morphine with saline and putting itching powder in their catheters…

Fuck. No way this is the rest of his life. He'll put a bullet in his brain before he lies down and plays some pissy little poltergeist's chew toy. It's time to find Sammy and make a plan.

It's time to find Sammy.

"_Hey_—" Dean starts, before erupting into a small coughing fit. Fortunately, that seems to do the trick; the door to his room opens, and a skinny, rookie-looking police officer sticks his head in the room. Black guy, friendly looking, can't be more than 24. Dean can take him. Even doped up and slightly toasted, he can take him easy.

"You're awake!" the guy says. "Oh, good. I mean, well… that means I can leave. Well, no, I'm not supposed to leave, but I can call the detective and tell him—"

"_Water_," Dean croaks.

Oh," the guy says. "Oh! You're thirsty. Umm… I don't know what to tell you. I'm not even really supposed to talk to you like this, I should probably tell the nurse—"

"_**Water**_," Dean insists, before tossing himself into an enthusiastic coughing fit.

"Oh, shit. Uhhh, you're not choking, are you? I'm pretty sure I'll get fired if you choke to death before you can even be questioned. I should… oh, to Hell with it." Motor Mouth finally gets over himself long enough to head over to Dean's side table and… look around like a complete dumbass because there's no water there. "Oh… there is no water. The nurse should probably bring some. I'mma call the nurse, alright?" he says.

"Wait," Dean says. He needs to be out of here, and he needs it yesterday. The _last_ thing he needs is people knowing he's awake and coming to ask him stupid questions he can't answer. "Can you at least tell me where my brother is, first?"

"Who?" he asks. "Oh, you mean the tall guy?" he says, holding his hand above his head to indicate Sam's height (and probably coming up a little short). "I don't know. He's in a different section, with some other guy guarding him."

"Is he even alive?" Dean grunts.

"Beats the Hell out of me," the guy says. "Sorry. I'll go get that nurse now. And don't tell anybody I was talking to you."

Dean tries to tell him to wait again, but it just comes out as a painful hacking. His throat is drier than fucking Route 66, and about as easy to travel down. At this point, maybe the water _should_ be his priority. A little pragmatism goes a long way, and whooping cough is definitely the enemy of stealth. But try telling that to his blood, which seems to be beating against his veins in a vain effort to escape and go find Sammy without him. It's bred too deeply into him, and even after all this time; even after _everything_, he can't. Not. Worry. About. Sam.

"Sam is fine," says Castiel from the place beside Deans bed where he suddenly willed himself into existence, and Dean is suddenly almost glad he's wearing a catheter. Shut up, he said _almost_ glad.

"Cas," Dean scrapes out through his parched desert of an esophagus.

Castiel gives him a brief nod, and starts walking towards the door. It's an odd move, and Dean makes good use of his eyes to let the angel know as much. The angel, for his part, just stands patiently as ever.

"Well, look who finally decided to wake up!" the voice of an entirely-too-chipper nurse says, as the smiling woman practically bounces into the room. Oddly cheery, for someone who is supposed to be nursing a suspected arsonist. "Oh!" she says, upon seeing Castiel. "And who is this handsome fell—"

Two fingers on her forehead, and it's lights out for Little Nurse Sunshine. In a shockingly smooth move, Cas puts one hand on her tray as he KOs her, keeping it perfectly upright even as she goes limp and falls to the ground. He brings the tray over to Dean, and helps him gulp down the precious, cold, clear wonderful water that the lady was nice enough to bring in with her.

"Not that I'm not usually, Cas, but today especially—I am so freakin' happy to see you, I could dance," Dean says.

"In your current condition, that would be ill-advised," Castiel says simply. "But I believe I can help you with that."

Cas has the Midas touch, because all it takes is a finger, and suddenly, Dean is as good as gold. "Thanks," he says. "Think you could give Sam a jumpstart, too?"

"Another angel is ministering to Sam," Castiel replies, and Dean gets the oddest mental image of a serious, sober angel sitting quietly with Sam and reading him Bible verses. "They will be with us shortly."

"Hey," a voice from the door says. "I know I'm not supposed to be talking to you, and everything, but I'm pretty sure I saw the Nurse come in here, and—holy shit! Who are—?"

Apparently angels aren't too big on letting people finish their sentences, as Cas time-space-wedgies himself behind the offending officer and puts Rookie on the ground faster than you can say 'the right to remain silent.' The guy lands on the nurse's rather soft-looking posterior, and Cas's angel sensibilities are offended enough to bend over and move the guy so that he's laying next to her and not on top. With that, he closes the door and heads back over to Dean.

"So, I'm guessing the Comeback Kid high-tailed it out of here when you showed up?" Dean asks.

Cas shakes his head. "He was not here. He is barred from this place—it is sacred ground."

Wait, what? Dean takes a second to look around the place… there's definitely a cross on the wall. And Dean is pretty sure he just saw a nun walk past his room. "I'm in a Catholic Hospital?"

"Yes," Castiel says. "The entire building has been consecrated. As long as you are here, Adam cannot reach you."

"Well, that's comforting. I think I'll stay here for… I don't know, a few years? Are they hiring sexy-yet-sincere young male nurses?" Dean asks.

"I do not know," Castiel says. "You would probably have to ask someone who works here."

Dean just smiles. Castiel is no fun at all. Which makes him more fun than anyone, sometimes.

"…Finster, I thought I told you to stand outside and not talk to the perp—_what the Hell_?" A man shaped roughly like a refrigerator who Dean immediately names Big Chief Wanahavadonut enters the room and spots the two dozing bodies laying on the floor near the door. "You!" he says, pointing to Castiel and putting his hand on his weapon. "Hands behind your—"

…and then there were three.

"You gonna do anything with them?" Dean asks of the growing human pyramid Cas is building.

"They will awaken when we are done here," Castiel says. "We need to talk," he says in a voice even deeper and more dire than usual.

"Well, that sounds promising," Dean quips. "Give it to me straight, doc," he adds with a smile.

Castiel just stares at him.

"Dude, tell me what's up," Dean clarifies.

Castiel shakes his head. "It is… not for me to say. I am not sure I could bring myself to repeat what I have learned if it were. The angel with Sam at the moment is the one with whom you must speak."

And if that doesn't fill Dean to bursting with optimistic, happy thoughts. "Okay… what, exactly, is so bad that you can't even talk about it?"

Castiel stares him directly in the eye. "I have learned what became of your brother after he was taken. I have learned of the… _methods_ used to acquire his consent."

Silence dominates the room for a few seconds in the wake of that little announcement. Only the sudden arrival of Sam and an angel Dean has never seen before serve to break the gravity of the moment. Sam and New Angel appear near the doorway.

Sam's face is pinched, a clear sign that he did _not_ enjoy the magical trip over here. "Hey, Dean," he says.

"Good to see you up and about, Sammy," Dean says with a nod.

Sam gives him a little smile, and starts to move over to a chair… only to trip over Big Chief Wanahavadonut and give Dean, Castiel, New Angel, and the entire world more Winchester than they ever needed or wanted to see. Fucking hospital gowns…

"Oh, fucking gross. Cover yourself, Sam! Show some fucking restraint," Dean growls, hiding his eyes in the crook of his arm.

Sam quickly stands up and pulls his gown back down around him. "…who put those there?" he says, voice barely above a bass-level hum.

"That would be Cas," Dean says, still shielding his eyes from unspeakable horrors.

"I apologize, Sam," Castiel says sincerely. "I did not expect them to present such a problem to you."

Sam just blushes bright red and heads over to the chair to sit down and cover his hindquarters. "So, what's so important that you had to bring me here without even letting me put on some underpants?" Sam says, trying to push the gown further down before Dean finally takes pity on him and tosses him one of the blankets from his bed.

"Sam, Dean," Castiel says, gesturing to the new angel. "This is Jophiel."

Jophiel—or his vessel, anyway—is an actual stick figure, or the closest Dean has ever seen another human being come. He is tall and thin, spindly limbs seeming to go on forever, so long and sharp that they make him look almost spider-esque. His face is decent enough, and his hair is tousled in that special 'not-really-messy-just-styled-to-look-that-way' manner that invites you to contemplate the paradox of styling your hair so that it looks unstyled. But like Cas, it's the eyes that _really_ get your attention. But where Cas is intense, world-weary, mournful and focused, Jophiel's eyes are downcast, shadowed, and sorrowful. It's a look Dean knows like the back of his eyelids.

It's guilt.

They are not going to like this.

"Jophiel was present during Adam's torture. As part of his penance for his actions, I have allowed him to come here and… _confess_ his part in these events, and relate to you all that he witnessed." At this, Castiel nods to Jophiel, who finally raises his gaze from the ground to meet Dean and Sam.

"Before I begin," he says, his voice gentle, "I want you to know that I **am** sorry for my part in this. It was… it was never intended to be as bad as it became," he continues as his eyes briefly break contact. "I can only hope what I tell you today will be of some use to you."

Dean shakes his head. Sam's face is rock steady. "Just… shut up, and tell us what you and _your_ brothers did to ours," Dean says.

Swallowing thickly, the angel nods, and begins his story…

* * *

_I don't know what happened before I reached Michael in the Heaven where he called me. All I know is what I saw when I got there. It was… disgusting. The landscape was painted in red, dripping with more blood than any single human body could possibly contain. Bits and pieces of bone and tissue littered the ground, hung from the trees, effused the very air. Michael's fury came in _waves_, crashing into me in a rhythm like a human heartbeat the second I was close enough to feel them. I had __**never**__ seen him so out-of-control. And Michael… Michael was my brother, and my friend, for a very long time._

_The boy… Adam… was unrecognizable on the ground near him. I approached them slowly. Michael on a good day is terrifying to consider. And this was not a good day. As I approached him, I felt a flare of his grace, and just like that, the boy was whole again. He gasped and coughed as he was revived, and barely had a chance to gain his bearings before Michael began destroying him again._

_Michael was a dealer of death. He was a soldier, a warrior first and foremost. He knew how to fight, how to kill, how to disarm and disable, how to use any and every weapon known to man and several not. But Michael was no interrogator. He knew nothing of causing pain, of eroding the will and scraping the soul. His attacks were not targeted or precise, but wild, furious and incoherent. He was less a general interrogating a prisoner, and more a spoiled child, frustrated at a toy that will not do what he wants, mindlessly banging it against every available surface until it works, until it's destroyed beyond repair, or until his frustration is appeased and he can seek a new one._

"Say it."

Adam can barely move. All he does is clench his eyes shut, and shake his head back and forth. No.

_And Michael destroyed him again._

_It was at this point he noticed me. I and my colleagues arrived just before he revived the boy again._

"For thousands of years, my patience has endured. **No more**. I _will_ have my vessel."

"But, sir, he is not the Chosen—"

"**I** have chosen him. Mine is the only choice that matters."

"…yes, sir."

"Obtain his consent. Do whatever is necessary."

"Yes, sir."

_Michael's fury was palpable, it flowed through all of us, feeling as though we had streams of liquid magma in place of blood. Our frustration from thousands of years of carefully implementing a meticulous plan only to see it crumble before our very eyes at the hands of human stubbornness… it grated on us, made us itch and seethe with contempt._

_Know that, Winchesters. Know that all of Heaven __**failed**__ against your will. Know that the Archangels themselves were brought to bear against your walls, and they were blunted._

_But know also the price that was paid. For nothing comes without a price, and Heaven keeps a careful tab on those in its debt. Know that when this boy fell into our hands, we were instructed to collect from him the debt that was rightfully yours to pay. Know that as surely as he was the Vessel for your Archangel, so also was he the Vessel for your __**punishment**__. Heaven does not suffer defiance lightly._

_And even so… know that it was never supposed to become what it did._

"This is useless," says Sachiel. "Michael ruined the whole thing for us. He blew his full load right off the bat, and now, there's nowhere for us to go but down. There's no room for escalation." He sighs. "This type of thing should never be handled by amateurs."

"He will break, eventually," Adriel replies. "They always do."

"Yes, but _eventually_ isn't good enough," Sachiel continues. "Michael is impatient. He demands results. When he comes calling, will **you** be the one to tell him 'sorry, no luck yet?'"

"Do you have a better idea?" asks Jophiel.

Sachiel considers this for a second. "Perhaps we're going about this the wrong way. Humans are emotional creatures. It is not a state of physical pain, but a state of emotion, a state of _despair_ that will cause him to break."

"And how do you suggest we bring about such a state?" Adriel asks.

"Look around you! This is **Heaven**. It is the incarnation of all the boy treasures. Of everything he could possibly hold dear. This is his reward for a life of obedience, his eternity. And who are the stewards of eternity?"

"We are," Jophiel says.

"Exactly! Even though it was built for the boy, **we** are its keepers, it's _Masters_. It is ours to grant or deny him, to use as we see fit. Let us use it _against_ him."

"What are you suggesting?" Jophiel asks.

"I am suggesting that we break him with the very thing that he loves most. To secure his cooperation, to induce his despair, we will destroy his Heaven."

* * *

"_Destroy_ his Heaven?" Dean asks. "How the Hell would you even do that? I mean, I've been there. It's kind of a 'do-it-yourself' deal isn't it?"

Jophiel gives him a plain stare. "Heaven is a construct. But just as a house cannot be constructed without materials, neither can a Heaven."

"Memories," Sam says. "Heaven is made from memories. Are you saying you _erased_ his memory?"

Jophiel shakes his head. "No. What we did was far worse…"

* * *

Kirstin McGee has, like, _crazy_ soft boobs. That is seriously their defining feature for Adam. Because, yeah, they're not like, tiny or anything, but she's not exactly gonna be winning any wet T-shirt contests any time soon, but hers are by far the softest boobs he has ever touched. And he has touched… _three_ whole sets of boobs in his teenage life, so knows what he is talking about. There is a tiny part of him that wants to compliment her on them, but he's pretty sure that even though she's okay with him touching them, there's a good chance that waxing poetic about them will still get him slapped at this point. It's early in their physical relationship. He doesn't need to push his luck.

Hands are all over the place. Bra straps are undone, jackets are shed, tuxedos should come with fucking instruction manuals, because he is pretty sure he wants to be as naked as she'll let him get for this, but it's hard to work complicated devices like _buttons_ and _cufflinks_ when your eyes (and your entire face) are way too busy with way more important things to bother looking. Still… this thing cost like $75 to rent. He isn't made of money—there's no way he can afford to pay for the stupid thing if he tears it while groping around with his prom date in the back of his car. He gets ready to pull away long enough to just pull the damn shirt over his head (why didn't he think of that before? Oh, right, mind elsewhere), and punctuates his parting with a little extra-hard suckle on her lip as he leaves.

Something enters his mouth. At first, he thinks he accidentally sucked up her chewing gum by mistake (wouldn't be the first time). It's only after spitting it out into his hand that he sees the blood. There's… a lot of blood.

"Adam?" she asks. "What's wrong?"

He looks up at her, and—what the fuck. **What the FUCK**. He pulled her lip off. _Her fucking lower lip is missing_.

It takes a few seconds for him to choke down his terror, because… seriously. He's no doctor, but he's been studying some things, and he knows good and damn well that people aren't supposed to _fucking come apart_ _like that_. "K—Kirsten, your—your—" He gestures useless to her face, and she finally seems to get the picture when she brings a hand up to feel at it and it comes back covered in blood.

"Oh God. Oh God," she says, starting to breathe rapidly. And all it takes is someone _else_ freaking out for Adam to snap back into action mode. He needs to get her to a hospital, like, _**right the fuck now**_. She's bleeding, a lot, and he is pretty sure that needs to be stemmed somehow. _Fuck_ his tuxedo—he'll pay for it later. He grabs his jacket from the floor and tries to hold it against her face.

"Here," he says urgently. "Hold this here," he instructs, trying to comfort her with a hand on her shoulder. "I'll get you to the hospital, just stay—" He gets out of the backset, and

JESUS CHRIST.

He wasn't even gripping her. Her **skin**. Just. It came with him. It tore like wet toilet paper. _**Oh God**_.

"_Adam…_" she says weakly. There's a **lot** of blood. It needs to go back inside of her. **She** needs to go back inside the car. She is getting out.

"Kirsten, stay in the car! Please, I'll drive, just—" She stumbles forward, and he has no choice but to catch her, and… and…

"**NO**!" he shouts, like he thinks it'll make a difference. But she is all over him, literally, came to pieces and… she's dead. She's dead. She died right in front of him, **melted** on him. She _**died in his**__**arms**__._

He throws up. He stumbles away first, crawling on shaking hands and knees away from her corpse because he doesn't want to get it on her, and then he pukes until there is nothing left, before trying to throw up his guts. He isn't sure when he starts crying but he knows that it's already happening when his body finally gives up on vomiting, and it shows no signs of stopping. He can't even… he can't even… she's _dead_. _**She's dead**__._

_He killed her_.

Someone's shoe is in front of him. He doesn't remember it arriving, it's just… _there_. He follows it up a long pant leg to a skinny torso and a suit and tie. Did this guy just come from the prom? Adam has never seen him before. Maybe he can… can help him… get Kirsten… somewhere…

"I can fix this," he says, simply nodding to Kirsten's liquefied corpse.

Adam immediately scrambles to his feet, almost passes out from the sudden rush of blood and all the food and water he just forcibly expelled. "Who are you?" he demands. There's something… something's not right about this guy. Adam doesn't like him. He can't explain it, but there's just some part of Adam that _knows_ this guy is bad news.

"I am Jophiel," he says. "I am an Angel of the Lord. And I can make all of this right again. All I need… is the answer to a simple question."

"No," Adam says without even thinking about it. He doesn't know where it comes from—it feels like the word hatched from an egg inside of his mouth and leaped out without him ever knowing it was there. It's an instinctual response, coming from deep, _deep_ inside, from the same place telling him to get the fuck away from this guy. "The answer is _no_."

The angel frowns. "Then we will move on."

And suddenly, the lights go out.

* * *

The Winchester brothers can only sit slack-jawed and listen as Jophiel continues.

"Heaven is every bright and shining memory a human keeps. It is everything wonderful they felt, everything beautiful they saw, everything lovely that they embraced. The idea was simple. Plunge him from the heights to the depths. Bring him to the brink of despair and then offer salvation from it. All we had to do was find the right memory, the right moment, the right _Heaven_… and he would be ours. So we went through them all, one by one…"

* * *

Adam blows out the candles on his seventh birthday's birthday cake. It's ice cream cake. The kind with chocolate crunch and gooey fudgey stuff that he liked at Mark's birthday party. He _knew_ mom would remember he liked it. She's fuck—_freaking _awesome. He almost forgot he's not supposed to say the other F word.

"Everybody dig in!" Mom says from behind her video camera. Ugh. What is it with moms and cameras? It's like they're worried about forgetting stuff. How can anyone forget something _this awesome_?

Only… only it turns out to be not awesome. 'cause later, when they are playing hat war in the kitchen, lots of Adam's friends suddenly stop running around. "I don't feel good," Mark says, holding his stomach. Mary falls down—he doesn't think she tripped, 'cause she wasn't running, but she still falls down. And… and she's turning a funny color, her skin is all gross and green with squiggly blue lines, and she's making scratchy noises in her throat and shaking, and Mark's doing it to, and so is Anthony and… uh-oh. Uh-oh. Uh-oh. Oh no. This is a big uh-oh. This needs grown-ups. Adam needs a grown-up really bad.

"**MOM!**" he yells, running to try and find her. He goes to the living room but she's not in the living room so he goes to the hallway but she's not in the hallway so he goes to the bathroom and she's there. She fell down, too. She's the same color as Adam's friends, but she's not shaking. She's not doing anything, 'cept leaking. There's black stuff coming out of her mouth. It smells really, really bad.

"Mama?" he says, shaking her. She needs to wake up. "Mama, something's wrong in the kitchen. Something's wrong, mama. Mom?"

She really needs to wake up. Adam _really really_ needs her to wake up.

But she doesn't wake up. He can't wake her up. Everybody else falls down except Adam, and nobody will wake up for him. And he can't open presents until Mama says so, and Mama won't wake up, and even if she did let him open presents, it wouldn't be much fun if all his friends were asleep the whole time.

He's hungry.

He's scared.

He's really scared.

He's really _really_ scared… and sad. 'Cause… 'cause… he doesn't know what's going on, but he thinks… thinks Mama might be…

"I can fix this."

He turns around and there is a man behind him. Really tall and skinny. And Adam knows right away that it's a Bad Man, the kind that the schoolteachers talked about sometimes, who wanted Adam to do Bad Stuff. "Go 'way!" Adam yells.

"But why? I can make them all better again. All you have to do is answer one question for me—"

"**No!**" he says, and his lip is wobbling, 'cause he wants to cry, but he won't. He won't cry in front of the Bad Man. He doesn't want anything to do with this guy.

The Bad Man just shakes his head. "Then we will move on."

Then Adam falls down too.

* * *

_One by one, we took them, and turned them into horrors._

* * *

It's his first date ever. He feels like such a turd in his stupid button-down shirt and his stupid _nice_ pants, but Sheena said he should take her somewhere nice, and apparently you have to look nice to go to nice places. He's starting to think Sheena _isn't_ nice (but he won't be **sure** until at least another month).

None of it matters, anyway. The place definitely isn't _nice_ in any sense of the word. No _nice_ place is going to have food filled with bugs that bore through human intestines after hatching in their stomachs. He couldn't even _help_ her, couldn't even go **near** her because she kept spitting out these little flying scorpion-looking things and puking blood and sprouting holes and screaming at the top of her lungs and he'd never been so terrified in his entire life.

"I can fix all this," a guy who looks like a waiter says to him…

* * *

_Each time, I made him the same offer…_

* * *

Adam cowers underneath a desk. The room around him is littered with destroyed corpses, chests split open, hearts all ripped out. Everyone is dead, and he didn't even **do** anything. He just _hid_, like a fucking coward…

"All I need is the answer to—"

"**No**," 13-year-old Adam says, crawling backwards to get away from the creep…

* * *

…_and each time, he refused. And so we moved on… and on… and on…_

* * *

…he put on the brakes, he **knows** he did, but it didn't stop. The car didn't stop and she was _nine_, she was _nine years old_ and he _knew_ her, knew her parents. How can he ever look them in the eye again? How can he look _anyone_ in the eye knowing that he… he…

…and the rest of the cashiers into the back room of the store. "Down on your knees," the apparent leader says, and they don't really have much choice but to comply. The manager went over this with them, but Adam thought of it the same was he thinks of a fire drill or tornado warning—something you never expect to actually _happen_. But… it should be okay. It should be okay. As long as they do what the robbers say, there's no reason to—and then he hears the first gunshot. It's only the first of many…

…as he watches it burn. All he fucking wanted to do was spend one fucking day with his mom when neither of them had to work or go to school or run a gillion errands. He's cooked breakfast a thousand times before, and he _never_ messes up, but today… today, he was so _fucking stupid_. And mom—where is she? _Where is she?_ He got her, he got her up, he **knows** he did, she was _right behind him_, **he fucking remembers her running, right behind him, SHE WAS **_**THERE**_**, **_**WHERE IS SHE**_…

…with Derek, Scoutmaster of his troop. He's the coolest adult Adam has ever met, and the closest thing to a dad he's ever had. So Adam doesn't think twice when Derek calls him away from the camp site and says he has something to show him. He doesn't think twice about how far they are walking. He doesn't think twice until Derek slams him against a tree with a hand over his mouth, un-tucks his shirt and tells him not to scream—

* * *

"You **sick**_** FUCK!**_" Sam roars, unable to hold in his anger for even one second more. He slams Jophiel into the wall with enough force to make a crack, holding him there with one hand and punching the living daylights out of him with the other. The angel doesn't even fight back. When he finally figures out that he can't kill him, Sam punctuates the beating with one final haymaker (snapping his head back so hard it makes a _dent_) and stalks back to his chair.

Dean wants this angel dead. He wants every single one that was involved in this erased from existence completely. But there's nothing he can do about it now. "No more details," he says. "Just… finish it."

Jophiel nods, not even wiping away the blood running from his demolished nose before continuing.

* * *

_It… it wasn't as though we were aiming to destroy his entire life. In each instance, we reset his mind to what it was at the time the memory took place. In each instance, we expected him to leap at the opportunity to right the horrific events that befell him… but in each instance, he refused. _

_The mind is… a strange, inricate thing. Memory is especially tricky. Even for us, the specifics of human memory are difficult to comprehend. We had a specialist, trained specifically to handle just such things—memory alteration, deletion, creation. He understood the memory better than any other angel in Heaven, and seeing as angels are eternal, felt no real need to teach others his knowledge. His very _name_ referred to his purpose, meaning "God Remembers."_

_I am referring, of course, to Zachariah. We were nothing compared to him, and so we had not even the slightest inkling what we had set in motion. _

_The boy, even as we seemingly pushed him back and forth through time in the context of his Heaven, somehow retained unconscious knowledge of us: that we existed, that we wanted something from him, that he did not want to give it. No specifics—just the base, primal urging to refuse us, avoid us, despise us. Without even realizing what was happening until it was far too late to reverse it, we accomplished the opposite of our aims. Instead of weakening his resolve, we refined it, strengthened it, and tempered what was once a mere desire into an __**instinct**__ as basic as hunger, thirst, lust._

_And each successive attempt to break him made it stronger_…

* * *

"I can fix all this," the man says.

"No, no you can't!" Adam says, backing away from him, wild-eyed and feral. "You're… you're making it! You and… and… I don't know. But it's you, _**all of you**_, and I won't. I won't!"

* * *

…_stronger and stronger still…_

* * *

The angel doesn't even get a chance to speak.

"I can't," Adam says immediately. "_PLEASE_. I can't. **I can't**. Just stop it. **STOP IT!** Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it…"

* * *

…_until it overcame him completely. And when that happened, our constructs could no longer contain him_.

* * *

"Leave!" Adam shouts, dressed in his baseball uniform and brandishing a bat.

"Adam, what the Hell are you doing?" Coach Rogers asks him, approaching him like he would a foam-mouthed dog.

"Please, just—you have to go. You **have** to go, or they'll… they'll get you. They'll kill you. Or worse. They always do something."

"Adam!" the Coach says, genuinely worried. "Calm down, son! Who is 'they?' What are you **talking** about?"

"It's me," Adam says, staring off into space (but still waving his bat around, keeping everyone at bay). "It's me they want. They won't get you if… if I'm not… if I'm not…"

He bolts. He has to get past Coach Rogers to escape the dugout, but the old man isn't fast enough to get a hold on him before he flees. The entire team tries to chase him down, but Adam runs like a man possessed. They don't catch him until he stops. And he doesn't stop until he's dead—finding the highway and leaping in front of the first car he sees.

* * *

_It was a fiasco. He tried to escape each and every memory after that through the same method. Each time, we brought him back, of course, but it was here we finally began to realize we had made a grave miscalculation. After a few more failed attempts, we surrendered to the body of evidence stacked against us. We knew we had damaged our cause, but still we thought that all we needed was a different approach. It wasn't until we brought his mind back to the 'present' that we truly learned the gravity of our error._

_We thought that each his mind would revert to the way it was before we began. Each time our experiment failed, we thought we erased the instance from his mind so that we could begin anew. _

_We were wrong._

_He retained them __**all**__. Every horror that was committed upon him by us was seared into his mind, as unforgettable as the memory it was made from. And _worse—_he retained __**those**__ memories as well. The great, and the terrible; multiple versions of the exact same events, at the exact same time, each experience as real to him as touch and taste. Multiple versions of his __**life**__, with no way to distinguish the true from the false_—

* * *

"Why don't you _tell_ me what happened?" Dean asks.

"_I don't know_," is Adam's simple reply.

"…what?"

"_I. Don't. __**Know**_**,**" he repeats.

* * *

—_and no way to erase the unconscious instincts we had written into him. His mind was ruined. He had no grounding, no base, no sense of reality to fall back upon. His experiences were true and false, both at once, a paradox no human mind can withstand. And so he was reduced to a terrified, quaking shell of a being, possessing certainty in nothing, but remembering—_

* * *

"_Oh, I remember_," Adam says to Dean, eyes as hollow as the heart of a serial killer. "_I remember—"_

* * *

—_**everything**_.

* * *

Dean is going to be sick. There is no right way to express the kind of horror, the kind of hatred, the kind of misery that he feels right now. The emotion is too strong—his body rebels against it, wants it expelled, wants to turn him inside out so that it can be scraped from every surface. Sam is ruined—a radioactive crater left in the wake of a nuclear detonation, offering only slow, agonizing death to those who come near.

"I… I never imagined the consequences would be so terrible," Jophiel says, actually having the _gall_ to look **sad**. Like he _**feels**_ something for the kid whose life he **SHREDDED**. "I thought… I thought it could all be undone, that none of it would _matter_ in the end if he just said **yes**. I swear, I did not know—"

"**SHUT. UP,**" Dean shouts without raising his voice even one decibel. "Are you finished?" he grits.

"No, I—"

"Then **finish**."

* * *

_In the end, I was the one who hit pay dirt. I… felt for him, even if you do not believe me. And it was this that led me to the final offer_.

"We will make you forget," Jophiel says, kneeling next to the cornered, quivering young man. "If you consent to be Michael's Vessel, _we will take these memories from you_."

Wild eyes, looking at once in every direction suddenly find focus. Quivers are suppressed to mere shudders, and panicked hyperventilation slows down to rapid breathing. Adam looks at Jophiel, looks him right in the eyes...

* * *

Bobby's stern face shows honest pain as he tries to reason with the boy. "Eventually, you won't even remember who you _are_."

And Adam's expression plunges into nothing. His face is as blank, white, featureless and desolate as the North Pole. "_Maybe that's what I __**want**_," he says in a tone that matches his visage. "_Ever think of that?_"

* * *

...and says it. It is the most painful word Adam has ever uttered, wrenched from his heart with rusty pliers, covered in blood and bile and pure liquid _hate_… but in the end, it comes. It comes, and that is all that matters.

"**Yes**," Adam whispers, shutting his eyes and dropping his head in shame from a source he doesn't even understand…

"_Yes._"

* * *

It seems like the entire hospital has ceased to exist for a moment, the countless doctors, nurses and patients vanishing from the face of the earth to let utter quiet rule the room. "That is all I know," Jophiel finishes quietly. "I am so…"

"_Save it_," Dean says. "I don't want to hear it. Doesn't make a damn bit of difference, anyway."

The angel nods.

"Out," Sam grits. "Get him out of my sight. _Now_."

Castiel, looking more miserable and weary than ever, simply nods to Jophiel. "You may go."

And he is gone.

They continue to stew for a bit. What are you supposed to _do_ with information like this? How can he possibly help someone who _angels_ couldn't even fix?

"I can destroy him," Castiel says suddenly.

Dean greets that with an appropriate eye-bulge of _utter horror_. "Say **what**?"

Castiel keeps looking at him. "I cannot take a spirit to Heaven against his will. But if he is here, on earth, without a body, I can wipe him from existence. At this point, it could be considered a mercy."

"No way," Dean says. "No. We're gonna get him into Heaven. One way or another."

"Dean," Sam says, gently. "What good is Heaven going to do him if it's nothing but his memories? All of his good memories remind him of horrible ones, and he doesn't even know which ones actually _happened_."

Huh. That _is_ a conundrum. Dean sits and ponders it for a second. "Wait, how does he remember **us**?"

Sam gives him a long look. "Seriously, Dean? I don't know how much you recall, but his memories of us aren't exactly the stuff Heavens are made of. I doubt we even came up. In fact… we might well be the **only** thing he isn't confused about."

Dean marinates in that for a few seconds, before the solution smacks him in the face. "His mom!" Dean says, pointing to Cas. "That was why he agreed to _begin with_. If we get him into Heaven, can you make **sure** he finds his mom? Like, his actual **real** mom, and not his matrix-mommy?"

Castiel nods. "I can. But how do you intend to get him there?"

He tries not to roll his eyes. Don't people realize that the plans generally come _later_ with him? "We'll think of something. Don't worry."

"I find that difficult, at times," the angel deadpans. "But whatever you do, I would not advise waiting for very long. I could feel his presence in the town as I arrived, and I fear the strain of being here is destroying him. His spirit is beginning to fragment. He may not last much longer… at least not as anything recognizable as human."

Dean flashes back to the image of Adam's spirit, black crevices starting to spider-web across his skin. When Cas says 'fragment,' he's not being metaphorical.

"Got it," Dean says. "Alright, let's get Bobby in here and get to some serious heavy-duty plan-making. We need this done _yesterday_. Let's… oh. Hey, Cas, could you ummm… get my stuff for me, please?"

Shockingly, Castiel nods and vanishes, reappearing mere moments later with both Dean and Sam's possessions.

"Thanks," Sam says, and immediately sets to putting on actual clothes.

Dean, on the other hand, immediately goes for his cell phone. 17 missed calls, 6 new messages. Yikes. "Well, good to know Bobby missed us, at least."

The first five are, of course, long, loud, profanity-laden tirades of Bobby's, promising them all kinds of creative ass-whoopings and anatomically impossible punishments if they don't get off their sorry asses and call him to tell them where they are.

But the sixth is from an unknown number. Somehow, Dean knows who it'll be before the message even begins.

"_Deeeeeeaaaaan, Saaaaaaaam_," Adam sing-songs in his creepiest voice yet. "_Come out to playyyyy-ayyy…_" He chuckles a bit before continuing. "_I'm getting all kinds of __**bored**__ without you. I mean, I guess you can stay there if you want… I've got Bobby to play with in the meantime…_" Adam trails off. There is the sound of a jolt, and Dean hears Bobby's voice let out a muffled scream. "…_but he's not as fun as you guys. He's old, and he gets tired easy. Plus, he smells funny. I don't think he'll be able to play much longer, so… hurry up and come on over. We'll be waiting._"

"END OF MESSAGE. TO DELETE THIS MESSAGE—"

Dean slams the phone shut. Yeah, Cas hit the nail on the head. Whatever they're gonna do, they can't wait any longer.

Adam has to be dealt with **tonight**.


	9. What if this Storm Ends?

**Title:** Static Cling [9/11]  
**Author:** morkhan  
**Warnings:** Cursing, violence, standard SPN stuff, really.  
**Characters:** Dean, Sam, Adam, Bobby  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Word Count: **6525  
**Summary: **Dean and Sam head to free Bobby and confront Adam for the final time… they hope.  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. I barely own the ideas I use, randomly cobbled together from bits and pieces of things I've watched or read. Eric Kripke and the CW are the REAL geniuses here.

**Author's Notes: **This is it—the grand-ish finale! Up until now, each 'event' within the story has had its own chapter, but the final showdown with Adam is too big and involves too much to be a single chapter, so I've split it into three, each named after a part of Snow Patrol's "The Lightning Strike."

Also, this chapter contains the _second_ Big Reveal, the one I've laid clues for (or tried to) for the entire story. I'm hoping I succeeded in sowing the proper seeds for it, and it doesn't feel like an ass pull.

The whole story has been building towards this point, so I hope it meets your satisfaction. Please, let me know either way! Reviews are greatly appreciated.

* * *

_What if this storm ends?  
And leaves us nothing  
Except a memory  
A distant echo…_

_Painted in flames  
All peeling thunder  
Be the lightning in me  
That strikes relentless._

– Snow Patrol, **The Lightning Strike (i) What if this Storm Ends?**

* * *

"_Sorry for the cheap shot about your… you know, odor,_" Adam says from behind the cash register. "_For the record, I can't actually smell. I was just saying that to get at Dean and Sam._"

Bobby rolls his eyes and wishes his mouth wasn't gagged so he could tell him where to stick his 'sorry.' Of all the things the damn kid could apologize for, he picks _that_? Is he shitting Bobby? He looks sincere enough, but it's hard to tell. It's not the low light or anything—spooks seem to give off their own light, just enough to make them show up no matter how black the night is. It's just… kid's expressions are _weird_. Like he doesn't know how he feels about things, so he tries on a bunch of different emotions until he finds one that fits. And if that ain't a sure sign the boy is losing it, Bobby doesn't know what is.

Oh, and the cracks don't help.

Kid's face is… _broken_. Not like 'wendigo tries to stick his fist through your skull' broken, but broken like a dropped china plate, black lines starting at his eyes and zig-zagging outward, covering his entire face in jagged cracks and making him look like one of those damn killer kids' toys brought to life. _Chunky_, or whatever it was called. Freaky as all Hell.

And yet, ever since the kid napped him, he hasn't really done much of anything. Just that little zap to get Bobby to holler into the phone, but that was more out of shock than anything. Where the Hell did the kid learn to go all Tesla on people? That's a new trick for a spook...

But other than that, the kid's just sort been of fading in and out of the place—a little grocery store, closed down for the night, the only lights coming from the freezers, and a few EXIT signs. The freezer bulbs cast everything in an unnatural shade of blue; enough to see what you're doing once your eyes adjust, but not much more. Bobby has no idea why Adam decided to camp out _here_, of all places.

Well, he doesn't until the kid suddenly gets talkative.

"_I used to work here_," he says, standing behind the register, looking just to the left of Bobby, who is tied up between a magazine rack and a candy kiosk. "_Bag boy, sometimes a cashier. My first job_." He sticks his hand out, and a few candy bars fly off the shelves and land on the conveyor belt. The thing starts moving on its own, with the kid reaching down with his phantom hands and pulling them across the scanner. He smiles a little at the beep, like it sparked a memory in his head, but the smile switches over to a frown pretty quick, and then he looks like he'd be losing his lunch if he had any lunch to lose. Like Bobby said—the kid can't seem to get a handle on anything.

"_There was a… girl_," he says as he keeps scanning. "_Amber, she worked with me. We were… ahh… closing up one night, got to talking. She was nice, fairly hot, and I kinda thought she was flirting so I tried to kiss her. She punched me in the stomach, called me a perv, and beaned me in the nose with a pack of Bubble Yum. Then she came back and kissed me_," he finishes, with the goofy grin only a teenager in love could possibly pull off. "_And then_," he continues, as the grin melts into a puddle of misery, "_then three guys with guns broke into the store. Made us open the safe, herded us into the back room, lined us up and shot us. I lived. She didn't. They… only shot me once. They shot her six fucking times_." Adam's standing on the edge of crying, looking down and getting ready to jump, when all of a sudden, he falls in the other direction and his face just goes blank. "_I had lunch with her two weeks later. We went to the same college_," he says like it's the most normal thing in the goddamn world.

Christ almighty, this kid is seriously fucked in the head. It hurts to see somebody get like this; even if that somebody happens to have you bound and gagged so you can be used as bait. Doesn't mean Bobby intends to cut the kid any breaks if he gets loose, though. If anything, it just makes Bobby more eager to put him down for good. End the poor bastard's misery.

The kid suddenly reaches a hand up and shoots a spark at the register, frying it. "_Don't worry_," he says. "_Sam and Dean'll be here soon. They'll come through._" He gives a half-smirk without looking at Bobby before vanishing again.

"_They always do_."

* * *

Cas leaves shortly after that. Dean makes a comment that is at least one-fourth joke and tells him to shank that Jophiel douchebag the next time he sees him. Cas gets all _offended_.

"He has repented of his actions. He understands the error of his ways and seeks atonement. That is all that can be asked of him," Cas insists. "Besides," he adds cryptically, voice softening, "we have all done terrible things that we once believed were right." Dean could almost _swear_ his eyes flick over to Sam just before he vanishes, but he can't be sure. Cas is pretty inscrutable most of the time—the rest, he's downright impossible.

"I've got it," Sam calls from outside the bathroom. "He called from a land line. The number goes to 'Connor's Market,' a family-owned local grocery store a few blocks from here."

Dean slips into his jeans as he talks. "What the Hell is he doing there?"

"Shopping organic? Hell if I know," Sam says. "But he said to 'come on over,' so I'm guessing that's where he's waiting for us."

"Great," Dean says, slipping a shirt over his head and opening the door to leave the tiny-ass stall. "Then that's where we're headed."

"Great," Sam echoes. "And what do you intend to do when you get there?"

"Talk?" Dean shrugs, searching through his angel-delivered knapsack.

"Yeah, because that's worked _so_ well the other _hundred_ times we've tried it," Sam deadpans.

"Hey. He talks to us," Dean points out. "Even when he's kicking our asses."

"He's not gonna _listen_ to us, Dean," Sam says, shaking his head. "What reason does he have?"

"Alright, wise guy, you got any better ideas?" Dean asks.

Sam shrugs. "I don't want to do it this way, I really don't, but I think you should at least _consider_ taking Castiel up on his offer. If it turns out we can't do anything for him…"

"What about the ritual?" Dean asks.

"We'd need a place _and_ an object of value to him, both of which all known examples have been thoroughly barbecued."

Dean sighs, taking a second to bang his head against the wall just once to try and jumpstart his brain. "Well, we know the car's not his anchor. Let's figure out what is."

"Are you seriously still thinking by the old rules?" Sam asks. "Dean, he shot _lightning_ at us. I've never even _heard_ of a ghost doing that. Everything else we hunt is somehow getting beefed up enough to break the rules they've followed for centuries. Why not him? He probably doesn't even _have_ an anchor."

"They always have anchors," Dean insists.

"Yeah, and djinn can't disguise themselves as humans, shifters never change forms at will, angels never barter for human souls, and vampires don't raise armies," Sam shrugs, moving in beside him. "It's a brave new world, Dean, and like it or not, we have to deal."

Dean _tries_ not to glare at Super Smart Smug Sammy for being right, but it's hard, and he's cranky. "Well, we've gotta do **something**. No way am I leaving Bobby to babysit at gunpoint… ghostpoint… whatever."

Sam seems to take a second to consider that, before nodding and deflating ever-so-slightly. "No arguments there." Having dressed, equipped themselves, and gotten everything they need in their packs, the two of them shoulder their carry-ons and get ready to face the music. "Ready?" Sam asks.

"Not getting any readier," Dean answers.

It's 3:33AM when they leave the hospital. No one sees as they go.

* * *

It kind of sucks, not having a car, especially when it's raining like God is aiming a water hose at creation, set to full blast. A crack of thunder explodes overhead as they step out of the hospital.

"You don't think that's him, do you?" Dean asks.

"Let's hope not," Sam replies.

When stealing a vehicle, it's tough to pick which one you take. Nice cars generally come from people who can afford repairs, but they also tend to have better security, and occasionally, tracking devices. Older, crappier vehicles tend to belong to people who can't afford better, but are easier to steal and much less risky. It doesn't take long for them to decide that Grand Theft Auto is definitely a game they're going to be playing tonight, but the choice is a little trickier. Well, for Dean, it is. Sam goes to the first car he sees in a convenient place, and has it up and running in no time.

Windom after midnight is about as creepy as you'd expect. The place is deader than dead- even the bars are closed. It's raining cats, dogs, and horses, and there are plenty of flashy special effects going off, but there is very little wind. As a result, the town looks drowned and dead, still and silent, each building a dark, implacable monolith staring down at them.

"Is it just me, or is it _really_ dark out here? Like darker than it should be?" Dean asks.

Sam leans forward to take a better look. "Looks like a power outage."

Sure enough, as Dean takes a second glance outside, he notices that there are no streetlights lit, no indoor or outdoor lights in _any_ of the buildings. Assortments of seemingly random abandoned objects litter the sidewalk—a shopping cart here, a broken-down bicycle there. It's like the town isn't even inhabited or like all the citizens just up and vanished in the middle of a busy day. It looks like a…

Well, it looks like a ghost town.

Only the occasional burst of lightning illuminates their surroundings further than the headlights on Sam's stolen vehicle. He _seems_ to know where he is going, but it's hard to navigate when the only adjective you can use to describe your surroundings is 'dark' and occasionally 'fucking dark.' After turning what seems to be the umpteenth corner they've navigated, Dean finally sees something different.

It's the one building with any light at all; a gentle white-blue glow coming from inside of a small store on the outskirts of downtown. "I'd say that's our place," Sam says.

Dean nods. "Looks like it."

As they pull closer, all doubt leaves them at the sight of Bobby's truck parked haphazardly near the side of the building. They pull alongside it and shut the car off, sitting with nothing but a torrential downpour to fill the silence.

"Come up with any good plans yet?" Sam asks.

"Nada," Dean sighs, reaching into their knapsacks and pulling out their spare weapons. Their rock salt shotguns got toasted along with the Milligan place, and Dean didn't think to ask Cas to bring their weapons kit from the back of the 'Pala, so all they have are a couple of iron crowbars and their wits.

Whatever. They've beaten worse odds with crappier weapons.

"He did say he wouldn't kill us," Sam says.

Dean shakes his head. "That's easy to say when you're _sane_," he says.

"True," he sighs. "Well, I guess it's time for brother v. brother, round 2."

"Destiny is a spiteful bitch," Dean says. "But what can you do?"

It's not a rhetorical question, and neither of them knows the answer. Sam simply responds by looking at Dean for a few seconds, before nodding and opening the door. Dean does the same, closing it without even looking back.

They close in perfect unison, just like always.

* * *

"_Put me to sleep, evil angel…  
Open your wings, evil angel…_"

Adam sings quietly to himself, standing cross-armed near Bobby, who is closer to dying from boredom than from anything else. Would it kill (for the third time) the little bastard to give him a confounded magazine to read or something? At least point him towards the rack so he has something halfway interesting to look at.

"_Oh, fly over me, evil angel…  
Why can't I breathe, evil angel?_"

The kid doesn't look like he's all there, even as he's singing. He seems to be staring off into space more and more as time passes, and with the looks Bobby's been seeing, he half expects that soon the boy will just snap, cut him up into pieces and _mail_ him to the goddamn Winchesters.

Suddenly, the boy snaps back to the present, looking at Bobby directly and smiling. "_They're here_," he says. "_See? I told you."_

Bobby never had any doubts. Not _really_.

The bell jingles as the two of them open the door. Adam gets a sneaky little smirk on his face before disappearing again. The door _slams_ shut the second the two of them are clear of it, and Bobby hears the distinctive sound of a lock snapping into place.

"Bobby?" Dean calls out. "Hey, Bobby! You in here?"

"_OVER HERE, YOU BAT-BLIND DOOFUS_," he tries to shout through his gag, and manages to make just enough noise to get their attention. They head over to him.

"Bobby!" Dean grins. "Wow, now this is a new one. Usually it's one of us that winds up tied to a chair with our mouths stuffed."

Ghost boy takes this opportunity to phase in between Dean and Bobby. "_That can still be arranged, if you're feeling kinky_," he smiles.

Dean blanches upon seeing his face, which doesn't make a lick of sense to Bobby. He was never afraid of the boy before, was he? "Adam, holy shit, man. You're fallin' apart," he says.

"_You're __**still**__ on that whole 'oh no, you'll go crazy' thing?_" he asks. "_'cause I'm pretty sure crazy is an exit we passed about a hundred miles ago_."

"No, dude, I mean **literally**. You're coming to pieces. Have you looked in a mirror lately?" Dean says.

Adam's expression has '_fucking. stupid. question._' in bold font across the front.

"You've got… like… cracks," he says, gesturing around his face. "All in here."

The boy purses his lips, ponders the image for a sec. "_…really?_" he says after a while, glancing at Dean. "_How cool does it look_?"

Dean is just a little thrown by the question, but he recovers pretty quick. "…actually, pretty cool," he says , head cocked to one side to get a better angle before he shakes it off and snaps back to attention. "But that's not the point."

"_Dean, dude, how many times are we gonna have this talk? I don't care. Do not give even the tiniest anorexic rat's ass. I'm practically an X-Man here; I'm having the time of my freaking afterlife. And Sam, you're about as subtle as you are short. Quit trying to be sneaky._"

Bobby hears a slight sigh from behind him, and turns his head as far as he can to see just the barest glimpse of the legendary bigfoot out of the corner of his eye. How someone that huge manages to move that quietly is something he'll never really understand.

"Let him go, Adam," Sam says softly. "This is between us."

The kid shrugs. "_Fine by me_," he says, flickering out of sight. Bobby's bonds suddenly loosen, and the gag pops out of his mouth.

He stands up for a second, clearing his dry throat and stretching his aching legs. "Well, it's about damn time. I have to piss like a race horse," he says.

"_Oh, crap. I'm sorry_," Adam says when he pops back into existence. "_Why didn't you say something?_" he asks, before taking a second to think about that dumbass question. "_Oh, right, that whole 'pantyhose in your mouth' thing._" He shrugs, before turning a slightly malicious grin to Bobby. "_Not very much fun being held captive by some asshole who doesn't even know you, is it_?"

"Oh, ha-ha," Bobby sneers. "I sure learned _my_ lesson. Next week you should teach me about friendship, or the power of positive thinking."

"_Great_," Adam smiles. "_See you next week_," he says gesturing to the door.

"Now, you wait just a minute," Bobby says. "You think you can hog-tie me and stuff women's… _underthings_ in my mouth and get away with it?"

"_I'd be very interested to learn how you intend to punish me for it_," Adam says, shattered face arranging itself into mock seriousness.

"Well, for starters—"

"Didn't you have to pee?" Dean asks.

Bobby tries to glare Dean into a dust speck. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're trying to get rid of me."

"We are," Sam says.

"You think I'm just gonna leave you boys alone to face—"

"_This is a family matter_," Adam says. "_Don't worry. I just want to have a little… fun. I won't even try to put them in the hospital_."

That gets him a look from everybody in the room. The lie is about as transparent as Adam.

He rolls his eyes. "_Okay, I won't try __**as hard**__._"

Bobby can't fuckin' believe these morons. "I can't fuckin' believe you morons…"

"Bobby, please," Dean says. "This is… different."

"We'll call you if we need you," Sam says. "We promise."

Bobby glares at the family of idiots in front of him and, not for the first time, curses John Winchester for having a dick. He is too old for this shit.

Adam cocks his head towards the door, which unlocks and opens for him. Outside, a fresh wall of thunder crashes into the building, rattling the windows and making glass bottles clink against each other. "_Drive safe_," he deadpans. "_It's a mess out there_."

"I'm leaving," Bobby says. "But if either one of you dies, so help me God, I'm summoning you from the afterlife and binding your spirits to do my yard work until I die."

"Don't worry about us, Bobby," Dean says. "We'll be fine."

The older man rolls his eyes at that particularly nutty chunk of bullshit and starts to leave, stopping just short of the exit. "If I don't hear from you in thirty minutes, I'm coming back. I'll flatten the door with my truck if I have to," he says, before stomping out. "Don't do anything stupid."

The door closes and locks behind him. Almost immediately, a snack rack and a Coke machine move over to block the entrance and hide whatever's happening from prying eyes. As he sprints to his truck to get out of the rain, he finds himself wondering if Sam and Dean are too old to for spankings…

* * *

Cas wasn't kidding. Kid looks worse than ever, and his ghost never looked that great to begin with. And yet… he's smiling. He looks like he's almost _happy_ to see them.

"_Sam_," he says. "_Dean. Glad you're back in action._" He clutches his hand over his heart. "_It hurts me when we're apart. It really does_."

"If only we could say the feeling is mutual," Sam says with a sarcastic smile.

"Adam—and I'm serious this time—we **know** what happened to you, with the angels," Dean says.

"_Really? Well, congratulations: you officially know more about my life than I do_," he says in the voice of perfect sincerity, before giving them a golf clap. "_Well done_."

"Kid, seriously, there's somebody waiting for you—" Dean starts.

Adam's hand flies up to massage his forehead. "_Oh my God, __**shut the fuck up, Dean**__,_" he says. "_I am so sick of all this maudlin crap. See, this is why no one likes you anymore_," he says, gesturing between the two of them. "_You just depress people_."

Sam bitchfaces. "Are you trying to teach us how to make friends now?"

Dean gives him a fish-eye. "Yeah, what is with you? You're acting all… _not psycho_."

Adam throws up his hands. "_I'm happy to see you guys! Is that so hard to believe_?"

Matching glares from the Winchester brothers put _that_ question to rest.

"_Oh, come on. Haven't you ever heard of a 'love-hate relationship'_?" Adam asks. "_I love hating you. It's… cathartic_."

"You are one fucked-up little phantasm," Dean says. "Seriously, kid, we're worried—"

"_Will you __**drop**__ the concerned parent act, already?_" Adam groans. "_I just want to have some fun with you guys. What's wrong with that_?"

"Your idea of fun involves breaking our bones and frying us," Sam points out.

Adam shrugs. "_Details._"

The younger Winchester rolls his eyes. "See, Dean?"

The baby of the family rolls his own eyes in return. "_**Alright**__, tell you what… we'll play a little game. You win, I'll sit down like a good boy and listen to your little lecture. If I win… well, that's kind of its own reward, so, yeah._" He grins. "_What do you say?_"

Dean glances over at Sam, who is looking squarely at Adam. He starts to open his mouth to ask if Sam is okay with it, when Sam abruptly answers the question ahead of schedule. "We'll do it. What's the game?"

The kid grins, making the cracks on his face split further open. "_Angels vs. Demons_," he says.

Dean goes wide-eyed. This is a clearly marked highway to Hell if there ever was one. Nothing good lies at the end of this road.

"_Don't worry,_" Adam says. "_The rules are really simple. We pretty much just kick the crap out of each other. Since… since I was the angel last time, I'll be the demon_." A slightly unsteady smirk. "_Sound fair_?"

This is so very, very fucked up. The kid has too many walls up, too many defenses for Dean to breach. He's not going to _listen_, and Dean can't figure out how to make him. He didn't come here to fight, but that's all the kid wants to do.

Sam reaches into his coat, pulling out his iron crowbar and brandishing it. "Sounds good to me. Dean?"

Dean shrugs, and produces his as well.

Adam stares at them oddly. "_...the fuck are those? Where are your guns?_"

"Buried under a few thousand pounds of overcooked house," Dean says.

"_Huh_," Adam says, staring at their crowbars for a second, head tilted sideways, before suddenly, inexplicably brightening up. "_Hang on a sec… I've got an idea,_" he says, before thrusting his hand out. A large, sturdy-looking shovel leaps from one of the aisles and lands in his palm. He wastes no time in relieving it of the actual _shovel_ part, leaving only the handle. "_There we go. Just one thing missing…_"

He puts his hand into the air, almost perfectly mimicking standard trickster posture as he snaps his hands and cues from the speakers in the ceiling…

_Koraaaaah  
mataaaaah  
koraaaaah  
Rahtahmaaaah_…

…John Williams and the London Symphony Orchestra?

The kid twirls the shovel handle like a staff, before brandishing it in front of him, holding it perfectly horizontal, and…

"You have **got** to be kidding me," Dean says.

"_Just call me the Phantom Menace_," Adam replies with a cheeky grin.

Sam responds by taking his crowbar into a two-handed grip and brandishing it like a sword. Is he _serious_? He is. He's fucking serious.

Well… if he tilts his head just right, the kid actually does look vaguely Maul-esque, what with all the squiggly lines on his face… he just needs a few spikes coming out of his head and he'll have it down.

Fine. If the kid wants to do this… well, when it hasn't been soul-crushingly bleak, this whole thing has just been weird. This is icing on the goddamned cake. A cake made of fish… and… rhubarb. Dean gives his own crowbar a little twirl before stepping into a stance matching Sam's.

Adam looks more excited than Dean has ever seen him, and he honestly can't decide whether he should be happy or completely shitting himself about that. "_Obi_?" he says, looking at Dean before turning to Sam. "_Ani_?" He grins. "_Let's dance_."

Thus begins what is quite possibly the most fucked-up fight Dean has ever been a part of.

Adam immediately starts whaling on them with the stick, gripping it two handed and using it to strike at them both at a pace that Dean can barely keep up with. He sidesteps an attempt to jab him in the stomach, only to get whacked in the knee when Adam brings up the other end of the staff to block a strike from Sam. Dean tries to counterattack while he's distracted, but Adam pushes Sam off easily and steps out of Dean's strike range, resulting in what a charitable person might call a 'whiff.'

Dean looks at Sam, trying to eye-message him that they need to work together on this, but Sam is completely focused on Adam, and soon, he charges forward to re-engage him, so Dean has no choice but to follow.

Adam draws back slightly, winding up in the snack aisle. Sam tries for an overhead strike, but Adam intercepts him and deflects him to the side, just in time to spin around and block a slash from Dean. "Wha the Hell?" Dean says. "How are you even good at this?"

Adam shrugs. "_Beats me_," he says before using his ghostly superstrength (which is probably most of the answer to his question) to jam Dean's weapon into the ground before bouncing the staff up and popping him in the chin. Son of a _bitch_ that smarts.

Sam launches a super-speed sneak-attack from behind, but Adam vanishes, his staff barely having a chance to move before he abruptly appears on the other side of it, gripping it with the opposite hand. Sam _barely_ avoids being crowned, managing to turn and catch most of the blow with his shoulder, which throws him off-balance and ends with him crushing about a dozen bags of Frito-Lays with his ginormous butt.

Having recovered from his own head trauma, Dean decides to try a little unorthodox fighting, stepping forward with a feint from his crowbar, which Adam moves to intercept. Pulling his strike off-target at the last second, Dean instead opts to kick Adam's weapon with all the force he can muster. The kid actually stumbles back a few steps.

"_Hey!_" he says. "_That's cheating. You can't kick a lightsaber_."

"I thought you were a demon. Demons don't have lightsabers," Dean fires back.

Adam looks affronted, but can't seem to come up with a response better than "_…shut up_." He then _hurls_ his stick like a javelin at Dean, who somehow manages a full-on Matrix dodge without even pulling anything, only to find that getting up from one of those is a lot harder than it looks. He lands on his back and watches, still upside down, as Adam catches his own thrown weapon with his stupid little teleporting trick. The kid comes within inches of landing a full force blow on Dean when Sam's crowbar helpfully jumps in between them to save the day. Adam looks pissed for a second, but the pissed look turns to surprise when Sam abruptly throws a handful of crushed potato chips at him and… vaporizes him. Sam uses his stick to heave Adam's weapon away from them before looking down at his brother.

"…potato chips?" Dean asks, sticking up his hand.

"Salt and vinegar," Sam replies, grasping it and heaving him up. Dean is actually slightly impressed. . Innovations in hunting… they always happen when you least expect.

"_Alright_," Adam says, reappearing near his stick and summoning it to his hand. "_If you two can cheat, then so can I. And I'm pretty sure I'm better equipped_." He punctuates this by thrusting his free hand at the two of them, who jump in opposite directions just in time for the force push to smack the aisle instead, causing several boxes of Cheerios to explode. Dean practically sees the light bulb pop up over the kid's head. With a wide grin, Adam drops his stick and brings up both hands, starting them in the middle and slowly bringing them outwards. As he does, boxes of cereal start bursting like goddamn fragmentation grenades, sending razor-sharp cornflakes and Deadly Bunches of Oats flying everywhere. The grain-bombing happens in waves, moving outwards from the middle with the kid's hands, so both Dean and Sam wind up running full-sprint to escape sugar-frosted death as part of their balanced breakfast. A running dive is the only thing that keeps him from taking a buckshot burst of granola to the face as he reaches the end of the aisle.

He gets back up quickly, turning around to survey the devastation, which looks like Hurricane Kellogs just got finished rampaging through the place. Sammy is unharmed on the other side of the store, but he's hardly _safe_—Adam appears to have taken up a strategy of divide-and-conquer, and is currently giving Dean's little brother about as much as he can handle in an all-out shovel-handle offensive. To Sam's credit, he seems to be anticipating and blocking the blows pretty well, but he's being pushed back pretty fast, and it won't take him long to wear down at that pace.

Not willing to risk slipping on Fruit Loops, Dean moves one aisle over and winds up exactly where he needs to be—the condiment aisle. Bags of salt are _plentiful_, and thought his current priority is reaching Sam, he gives a respectable baseball swing to a shelf of salt as he passes, managing to smash a few bags open and scatter their contents over the floor. The more salt they have available, the better. He picks up a handful and bolts just in time to see Sam and Adam duel their way into view. The two of them look to be getting increasingly pissed as they fight, completely focused on one-another, leaving Dean free to charge in and ass-salt Adam from the side before he can react. His stick clatters to the ground as he is turned to mist again.

Sam somehow manages to look both affronted at and thankful for Dean's intrusion. "Thanks," he says.

"How exactly are we supposed to 'win' this game?" Dean asks.

"_You aren't_," Adam says from the freezer section in the opposite corner where he has reappeared. He stares the two of them down as the lights in the iceboxes behind him begin to flicker, dimming and brightening erratically.

"Uh oh," Dean says. That is not a good omen. "I think he's about to up the amperage…"

In response, the lights flare brilliantly as Adam thrusts his hand out, sending an arc of electricity spiraling towards them. It's only sheer luck that it misses them, slamming into a shorting out a meat cooler instead

"Come on," Dean says, grabbing Sam and trying to pull him out of Adam's line of fire. In response, Sam simply shrugs out of Dean's grip and charges straight at Adam. "Sam! What the fuck are you _doing_?" he shouts uselessly, as Sam doesn't even _pretend_ like he's listening to Dean. Instead, he charges Adam at a dead sprint at the kid continues to shoot thunderbolts at him. He darts from side to side at each bolt, effectively dodging his daily dose of electrolytes. It looks like he might damn well get close enough to strike, but Adam's smirk as he gets nearer tells Dean pretty loudly that there's more to this than meets the eye.

Sometimes, being right sucks.

As soon as Sam gets within spitting distance, Adam statics out of sight. Dean hears a noise and turns around just in time to see the Phantom Menace, who has reclaimed his weapon of choice, swinging at his head. He manages to deflect the blow, but the sloppiness and suddenness of the movement ends up with the crowbar knocked out of Dean's hands. From there… well, from there, he's kind of screwed, as Adam proceeds to lay down a multi-hit combo that would make Mr. Miyagi nod his head with pride. Blows come from all over, and while Dean ducks behind his forearms to avoid headshots, being repeatedly hit in the forearms with a thick wooden staff hurts like a _bitch_ after a couple of seconds, not to mention the body blows that Adam is landing due to Dean's preoccupation with preserving his good looks. Ghost boy ends things by sweeping Dean's legs out from under him, causing him to sprawl flat on his back and bounce his head against the tile hard enough to make his brain feel like it's a Jell-O mold.

"_One down_," Adam says, getting ready for the knock-out blow when Sam once again pops in to save the day, furiously striking at Adam like the crowbar really _is_ some kind of weightless, fancy light sword. He knows Sam probably needs his help, but the universe is really looking quite swimmy at the moment, and Dean isn't going to be much help if he can't even walk straight. He's pretty sure _The Legend of Drunken Master_ was bullshit, and that you do, in fact, suck worse at damn near everything when you're drunk off your ass, which is pretty much the same as recovering from a head blow (tipsy is another story, but that's a debate for another time).

As he tries to regain his bearings and get back on his feet, Dean keeps his eyes on the battling brothers as they fight. It's… it's _furious_. It's completely insane how fast they are going, looking like an actual swordfight as opposed to untrained morons hitting each other with sticks. Adam sweeps at Sam's legs, Sam jumps over. Sam tries to counterattack, Adam blocks every blow. And the more they do it, the more frustrated and pissed they seem to get at each other. The lights are flickering all around Adam now, even the ones that aren't turned on, and little sparks of lightning occasionally snake around his spiritual body. Even the song from the PA system sounds angry, all static-y and distorted. Sam is utterly focused, his face bright red with both exertion and anger, and Adam's expression matches his perfectly, the two of them clashing at each other in a dance so furious that it's almost like they know what the other is going to do.

Almost like they know what the other is going to do.

Almost like… _**holy shit**_.

* * *

_Adam pops out of the air in front of Sam and thrusts his hand at the giant, just as the giant aims his shotgun. Both hit their mark…_

_Dean opts for a running dodge, guessing (correctly) that Adam doesn't have much experience at hitting a moving target. Sam moves backwards steadily, doing the occasional pivot to let a frame brush past, even deflecting one with his shotgun…_

_Dean feels Sam shove him over to the side before dodging away himself, just in time to avoid the searing bolt of light that splits the air between them. A sharp crack, as loud as any shotgun, accompanies the blast, momentarily robbing Dean of his hearing as he scrambles to get upright and figure out what the fuck just happened…_

* * *

Sam could predict what Adam was going to do. Hell, Sam dodged **lightning**. Super Hunter or not, human beings just aren't _fast_ enough to dodge a fucking bolt of electricity with no warning. He had to have known it was coming, even though he didn't _know_ he knew it.

It's like… Sam is _connected_…

* * *

_Sam doesn't say anything and Dean notices something is a little… off in Sam's posture. He's seen this before. "Dude, are you _crying_?"_

_Icy shivers creep up Dean's spine, and he turns to find Adam glaring at him from about two microns away, eyes practically radioactive with rage, shining, hateful, and… moist? Is he _sad_?_

* * *

_Adam's back is turned to them. He is staring at one of the pictures Dean definitely, _definitely_ did not look at. He is no longer attacking them, no longer even seems interested in them…_

_It was a framed picture of Kate Milligan. Destroyed…_

…_Sam looks _really_ pained at the moment, eyes big, moist and unfocused, teeth clenched tight._

* * *

And now that the ball has started rolling, there's no stopping it, as Dean's mind continues to comb through his memories for more instance of synchronicity between his little brothers…

* * *

Adam's freakout at Castiel's visit…

"_No!" he breathes, immediately going from sitting to standing. "No, no, no, no, no…" he chants in pure breathless panic…_

And then Sam talking in the basement…

_"Uhhhh, Dean," Sam says, somewhat urgently._

_"PTSD," Sam says, suddenly looking sick._

_"Holy shit," Sam says, now looking a little freaked himself._

_"__**Shit**__, Dean," Sam says, head leaned back against the wall, looking helpless and lost…_

* * *

Bobby's séance.

_Bobby grunts and rolls his eyes. "You've got the Winchester sense of humor, alright."_

_"__Hey__!" Sam and Adam say in unison…_

* * *

It's not 100%, all the time, but it's definitely there. Almost every time something happened to get a reaction out of Adam, some of it spilled over onto Sam. Adam freaks, Sam gets scared. Adam comes home, Sam gets sad. A picture of Adam's mom gets blasted, Sam looks hurt and miserable. Adam is offended, Sam is offended. Their emotions align entirely too much for it to be normal.

And the anger…

The anger should've been the most obvious part. Every time they talked to each other, one would get pissed, and then both of them would steadily get more and more enraged until someone broke them up. It was like some kind of godforsaken fury feedback loop, where Adam bleeds it into Sam who rebounds it on Adam and just makes everything worse…

They're connected. Tied. Fettered to one another. It's been right in front of Dean since the start, and he was too much of a bat-blind doofus to notice it. He's been misreading Sam the entire goddamn time, misattributing his mood swings, his _lack_ of moods, his inappropriate emotional reactions… thinking they were just part of the New!Sam package. He should've _known_ his damn brother better than that. Sam was right…

_"Maybe he _**has**_ an anchor, and he follows us because we carry it with us."_

And so was Dean…

"_They _**always **_have an anchor_."

Sometimes, being right **sucks**.

Because Adam _**does**_ have an anchor. It's Sam.

Adam's anchor is fucking _**Sam**_.

_To Be Continued…_

* * *

**A/N**: Songs in this chapter...

The one Adam sings is _Evil Angel_, by Breaking Benjamin. I'd suggest youtubing 'Supernatural' and 'Evil Angel' because there is at least one truly killer SPN vid set to that song.

And in case someone didn't get the reference, the song Adam has playing during their fight is _Duel of the Fates_, by John Williams and the London Symphony Orchestra for Star Wars Episode 1. :P


	10. Sunlight through the Flags

**Title:** Static Cling [10/11]  
**Author:** morkhan  
**Warnings:** Cursing, violence, standard SPN stuff, really.  
**Characters:** Dean, Sam, Adam  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Word Count: **4171  
**Summary: **Dean has found the answer to the grand freaking mystery. Now, he just needs to figure out what the Hell he's supposed to do with it…  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. I barely own the ideas I use, randomly cobbled together from bits and pieces of things I've watched or read. Eric Kripke and the CW are the REAL geniuses here.

**Author's Notes: **Part 2 of _The Lightning Strike_. Not much more to say. This chapter and the next one are the scenes I've had in mind since the beginning (believe it or not, the Fake!Lightsaber fight was something I came up with at the last second). I am always eager to know the thoughts of my readers, so feel free to review if you have any. :P Enjoy!

* * *

_These accidents of faith and nature  
Tend to stick in the spokes of you  
But every now and then, the trend bucks  
And you're repaired by more than glue._

- **Snow Patrol, **_**The Lightning Strike (ii) Sunlight through the Flags**_

* * *

Well, there's a pickle for ya. It's like the answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything. Sure it seems like a good idea to build a megacomputer and let it think for a million years to come up with an answer, but once you actually get it… you've got no clue what the fuck you're supposed to **do** with it. If there is **one **thing on the planet that he is less willing to salt and burn than his car, it's Sam.

Speaking of Sam and his spiritual cling-on, their fight is still increasing in pitch, though Dean can see that Sam is starting to have a hard time keeping up. His hair is wet with sweat, clumping together into strings that swing wildly around his head as he moves. His face is probably a couple of degrees from putting off visible heat waves. Dean is willing to bet he stinks to high Heaven, too—burning up in that stupid jacket. But then, it's not like he has even one microsecond to shrug out of the thing while Adam is swiping at him with his Sith stick.

Adam is the thing that's really worrying Dean, anyway. The fury feedback is rapidly reaching earsplitting, glass-shattering loudness in here, and since Adam is their resident Dark Side adept, he is the one who will be channeling his anger into _pain_. What's worse is that once Adam is pissed, there's no reaching him. Dean can't seem to take the edge of that kid's rage no matter how hard he tries. Trying to apologize to him is like trying to take down an M1 with a slingshot—pretty fucking useless. So once Adam gets angry, he _stays_ that way until he gets to purge his frustrations on his big bros. Hell, the Dark Side metaphor is practically true—the kid said so himself.

"_I got strong when I got mad._"

Sam's just making things worse. If only it were _Sam_ he needed to calm down… that, he could probably handle. Sam will accept an apology, and he's got no issue giving them out himself when he knows he's wrong. And with Sam, Dean has the advantage of experience; he's braved that kid's fury more times than he cares to count. Hell, Dean dealt with Pissy Sam through most of the kid's teenage years, since Dad wasn't around enough for him to gripe to. Sam… Sam, he could pacify.

And… wait just a hot freaking second. Maybe he's on to something here.

He hasn't seen Adam enough to know for sure—the kid liked to stay out of sight—but it's possible this connection thing runs both ways. If he can't get to Adam through the standard channels, maybe Dean can reach him through _Sam_. It's a weird plan, and is damn near guaranteed to make him Hella uncomfortable, and it might not even _work_. But there is always a chance… and _any_ plan is better than no plan.

Finally regaining his bearings enough to move efficiently, Dean runs over to fetch his crowbar and another handful of salt from the clean-up on aisle whatever, taking a second to smash open a few more salt bags for good measure. The store is starting to look like the Mardi Gras parade came through, so sprinting back over to his little brothers is a difficult task fraught with perils—careful not to slip on the wine bottles, watch out for the broken glass, there's a puddle of god-knows-what spreading across the floor here, and _where_ did all this damn meat come from? It's like a cow _exploded_ in here.

Reaching Sam in the frozen foods section, it looks like he's arrived just in time. Adam is driving Sam back quickly, the exhausted Winchester barely able to keep up with the pace of his strikes enough to defend himself, let alone, counterattack. Dean approaches quickly and hurls the salt at the kid, only for Adam to somehow realize he's there and disappear mid-toss. His OH SHIT sensor is blaring at high volume, but on pure instinct, he gives a wild swing of his weapon in a 360 degree arc, and—luck be a fucking lady—catches Adam just as the kid tries to counterattack from behind. He's gone for the moment, but Dean knows he won't stay gone long.

"Sam!" Dean says, rushing over towards his little brother, who looks about stretched to his limit and _still_ as volatile as a nuclear reactor mid-meltdown.

"Where have you…" Sam starts to ask, but Dean cuts him off.

"Sam, think of something sad!" Dean shouts.

His little brother's face scrunches up into a perfect bitchy mask of befuddlement. "_What_?"

"Don't ask questions, just do it!" Dean shouts.

"Dean, no offense, but this is **really not the time** for—"

The shovel handle harpoons itself through the door of the freezer, shattering the glass and _embedding itself__in the metal_. Dean pulls a 180 in record time only to see Adam standing at the end of the aisle, looking ready to call down the thunder, reap the whirlwind, ride the lightning, and rock them like a hurricane all at once. "_Game's over_," he says in a low growl. "_You lose_."

"Come on!" Dean shouts, pulling Sam around a corner as Adam throws a lightning bolt at them, smashing into a freezer and showering them with sparks as they run.

"Dean, what the Hell are you—"

"Come _on_, Sam! I know there's an emo kid in there somewhere, _let him out_!" Dean shouts. Sam starts to respond but Dean has to pull his head down to keep him from getting beaned by a several flying bottles of Old El Paso.

"Dean, what the _**fuck**_ are you **on**?" Sam shouts, trying to tear away from him. He'd probably have been able to, if he hadn't just finished fighting in the fake lightsaber Olympics.

"Sam, _please_, just trust me!" he shouts, being force to push him away when Adam suddenly reappears in front of them. Dean gives a shockingly quick swing of the crowbar, catching Adam and vaporizing him again. But apparently, at this point, his baby brother's thunderous rage has reached an all-time high; the second the iron weapon makes contact with Adam's body, Dean's arm gets a powerful jolt and jerks backwards. Against his will, his hand opens and his only defense against Adam goes flying to parts unknown. Worse still, his arm goes dead—Dean can't move it to save his life. Whatever—at least it's not something more important, like his _legs_. With his other arm, he picks Sam up again and flees to the condiment aisle.

"Dean, **let me go!**" Sam shouts. "What is your _**problem**_?"

"Sam," Dean sighs as they finally come within eyesight of the mess of salt Dean made. Hopefully, it'll protect them long enough for this to work. "I am **begging** you here," he says as he hauls his unwilling little brother along. "Think of… mom! Think of dad! Jessica, Madison, _**something**_!"

They reach the salt zone just as Adam reappears at the end of the aisle. The vengeful spirit hurls some more of Zeus's fury at them—but fortunately for Dean, salt lines block ghosts' powers just as well as they do the spooks themselves, and ghost boy's thunderbolt fizzles out the second it reaches the sodium. Adam literally _roars_ with rage, so frustrated that the light fixtures around him overload and burst into spark showers. He vanishes, but even as Dean hears various objects in the store being moved around and destroyed, he knows that Adam is going to get to them sooner or later. He just has to hope that the time he bought them here is enough.

"Sam," he says, turning around.

Sam full-on decks him right in the jaw. Knocks him flat on his ass.

"You are **fucked** in the **head**, you **stupid, **_**tactless ASSHOLE**_!" he shouts. "How can you **say** shit like that?"

Dean reaches up and pulls Sam down just in time to dodge a six pack of Miller that Adam hurls at him. He moves them both, crawling over to take cover between a pretzel kiosk and a small display of flour tortillas. "Sam, I'm…"

"_Shut up!_" he shouts, trying to get away from Dean. "I don't know what's wrong with you, but sometimes, you just—"

And that's when it hits him. Not what makes Sam sad, but what makes _him_ sad, what's brought him down ever since Hell and Lucifer, and what he still hasn't bothered to fix. Adam won't let him apologize, but if there is one other person in the world Dean owes an apology to, he's standing right in front of him. From Sam's point of view, his outrage is _justified_, and if Dean is going to defuse Adam's anger, he has to defuse Sam's first. Yeah, this is going to make him **Hella** uncomfortable but maybe… maybe it should. Maybe that's the point.

So that's the point where Dean reaches up, pulls Sam down to his knees along with him, so that Dean can look him right in the eye as he speaks. "Sammy, I'm sorry."

Sam rolls his eyes and starts to get up again. "Good, but that hardly—"

"No, Sam," Dean says, refusing to relinquish his grip. "I'm _sorry_. For **everything**."

Dean hears glass bottles breaking by the dozen. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the salt being lapped at like sand on a beach with gradually-increasing waves of liquid.

But for the first time, a small fraction of the anger leaves Sam's face, replaced by confusion. "…what are you _talking_ about?"

What is he _talking_ about? He's suddenly aware of so much shit, he barely knows where to begin. "I've been a _shit _older brother and a _shit_ human being to you, for a while now. And I'm sorry."

It triggers something, Dean sees it, but Sam isn't exactly in the mood to play along. "Dean… I… this isn't the _time_ for this—"

"**No**," Dean insists. "The time passed a long time ago. _This_ is way overdue." His dead arm is starting to tingle back to life again, so he grabs Sam by his jacket, holding him in place as he speaks. Something slams against the back of the pretzel kiosk, but Dean doesn't give a shit. He's got more important things to worry about.

"Dean…"

"I'm sorry I thought your Lucifer plan was stupid," he says. "I'm sorry a freaking Horseman of the Apocalypse had to force me to let you go through with it. I'm sorry I didn't have faith in you, when you stood there and never freaking _stopped_ having faith in me. I'm sorry I couldn't believe in you, and I'm doubly sorry that I stood there like a jackass and _said that to your face_."

It's happening. It's slow going, but it's going. The anger is starting to drain from Sam's face. "Dean, don't…"

"I'm doing this, Sam. Now's as good a time as any," he says. "I'm sorry I ignored you, sorry I got my head shoved so far up my own ass that I damn near forgot what the sun looked like. I'm sorry I abandoned you, _every single time_ I did it because you know I did it more than once. I'm sorry I gave up on you, told you to go your own way, I'm sorry I couldn't trust you, I'm sorry I didn't trust you with Ruby—_fuck_, even though I was **right,** I'm still sorry. I'm sorry I blamed you for letting the devil go, because I should have known better than anyone that you didn't start that train. I started it, and the angels and demons kept it going. They screwed us all, and the only reason they were able to do it was because I _kept giving up on you_. I treated you like a fucking suspected rapist, I beat the shit out of you when I found out about your powers and didn't even give you the fucking time of day when it came to your side of the story. I wouldn't even fucking _listen_ to you—no wonder you felt like you had to lie to me. I'm **sorry**, for **all** of it."

Sam looks shell-shocked. The anger is almost completely gone, but that's not good enough. He needs to push him in the other direction. "Dean, why…?"

"_Because_," Dean says. "Because it _fucking matters_. I'm sorry for dying and going to Hell. I'm sorry for not trying harder to get out of the deal. I'm **not** sorry, for making the deal, but… but I'm sorry I had to. I'm sorry I didn't get there fast enough to save you. We **both** screwed up, it was **both** of us that let all that stupid shit drive us apart, and this whole time, I've been treating you like I had nothing to do with it. You've been carrying all that weight because you believed me when I told you it was your fault, and you know what? **That** is what I am sorriest about. That, right there, was the most dickish thing I've ever done; making you, _letting_ you believe that it was all your fault, for even one goddamn second. And I'm sorry for it. I'm sorry you thought you deserved it. You didn't. You don't."

The lights above them flare up for just a little bit. Sam looks miserable and uncertain… so Dean keeps going. Maybe an apology isn't enough. Maybe, in addition to bringing himself down, he needs to lift Sam up.

"And I am **so freaking proud of you**, I could explode. Did I ever tell you that? I mean like, literally, pop like a goddamn balloon. You _saved the fucking world_. We both did, but you were the one who took the fall. I went to Hell kicking and screaming, so you could live. You took a fucking swan dive with the devil in your pocket so **everybody** could live, including the jackass in front of you. You danced with the devil, got the fiddle _and_ your soul, and that is about the most badass thing that anyone has ever done in the history of time. Heaven and Hell chased you around your entire freaking life and told you that you were evil, and you cock-punched Hell, told Heaven to suck you off, suplexed Satan into the pit and 90% of the world is alive because you were **fucking awesome**. And nobody ever tells you that. I guess I thought you just kind of _knew_, but maybe you don't. Either way, I'm sayin' it now. You are a goddamn hero. I am fucking proud of you. Oh, and I love you," he adds, because he will never not have a hard time saying that.

Sam looks drained, but there is little-to-no anger left on him. It's stripped away like layers of varnish, leaving him raw and open. His eyes are lost, glazed over and wet, and every so often, a little tear will pop out and run off, trying to leave before anyone sees it. "I don't get it. You don't… you don't…"

It's time to seal the deal. Dean grabs Sam and pulls him into the fiercest hug he can manage with one slightly numb arm. "Just… take it, Sam. You don't have to get it. Just accept it, man."

Sam sniffs and nods into Dean's shoulder, making him feel like a tool for not doing this sooner. He never even imagined all the guilt Sam had to carry around with him. He can't imagine what it has to feel like for someone to take it away. And all of a sudden, he is just as surprised as Sam at what he said—that he meant every fucking word of it. That he hasn't felt like Sam's brother in so long that it hurts, that there was so much garbage in the air between them that needed to be cleared, and that even if it doesn't do jack shit to Adam, he'll be glad he did this. It's his brother. His fucking brother. Alive, well, triumphant, right here in front of him. 100% pure Sam.

"It was you and me, buddy. You and me against the world, and we **won**," he says with a smile, because… yeah. It kind of was. He never thought about it like that, but now that it's over…

…is it over?

The sound of store-demolishing spirit tantrums seems to have died down to pretty much nothing. Everything is quiet, and oddly enough, it doesn't even feel like that crappy 'before the storm' quiet that usually heralds an ass-kicking. Without letting go of Sam, he looks around to see the salt line just _barely_ holding together, having been almost completely washed away. It's dangerous to jump to conclusions, but Dean likes living dangerously… and he thinks that it might have actually _worked_.

Sam snores against his shoulder.

Well, that's a little… weird. Being careful not to jostle him too much, Dean shifts him over so he can see and… yup. Sam is out like a night light. _Wow_. He must have been even more exhausted than Dean imagined. Or maybe he was just running on pure anger, zonking out when Dean took it away. Either way, it looks like he's staying down, for the time being. As gently as he used to when Sam could still be called 'small,' Dean lays him on his back so he can rest, before getting to his feet and stepping out of their makeshift shelter to confront his other brother.

The second he breaches the salt line, Adam is in front of him. The kid sways slightly on his feet, like he's having trouble standing up. Christ, he looks every bit as tired and weary as Sam did. His expression is wreckage from the train crash that his life turned into, and… his eyes.

Holy shit.

Never has he felt more connected to this pissy little shit than at this moment, because with that worn expression on his face, those are _John Winchester's eyes_. Dean can see them now, plain as day, a perfect match for his dad after a bad hunt, a bad night, a bad life, beaten and ruined, but completely unable to _stop_. This is his brother. There's not a drop of doubt left anymore. Adam Milligan is Dean Winchester's **brother**.

"_What… what are you doing to me_?" Adam says, his voice shaking. "_Stop it. I don't… I don't…_"

"It's okay, kid," Dean says. "It'll be okay."

"_No,_" he says, shaking his head. "_No, it's not. It won't_."

"You're half-right," Dean says. "It's not okay, now. And I'm sorry for that."

Adam sniffs, and backs away. "_Stop it. I don't want…_"

"You don't want my apologies?'" Dean asks.

"_I don't want to stop _hating_ you_!" he shouts.

"Why?" Dean asks, trying to think of the right thing to say, because this is the first time Adam has ever actually _talked_ with him, and Dean needs to be a good big brother.

"_Because_," Adam says, turning to Dean with Sam's lost puppy eyes. "_Because… I don't know what else to __**do**__._"

He feels for the kid. "I wish it didn't have to be like this, Adam. I wish you could've lived, stayed with us, gone your own way, had a _life_… but I can't change it. And no matter what you think, **this** isn't good for you either. Pissed off and hating everyone is no way to go through life. Or, you know, death."

Adam's face crumples as he shakes his head. "_You don't get it… I don't __**have**__ anything else. You're the only… the only…_" he trails off.

"We're not," Dean says, moving towards his baby brother. "There's more to your life than us."

"_It's not… real. It doesn't matter. None of it makes any __**sense**__,_" Adam says, staying still for once. Dean is shocked to find that they stand pretty much dead-even in terms of height. And they share so many features… it's almost like looking into a funhouse mirror, showing you yourself with just a few tweaks. And he can't help but wonder what might have been… if dad had told them, if they had found the kid before, if the kid and his mom had come with them, grew up with them the whole time… so many what-ifs that are utterly freaking useless. None of it is real. This is.

"It **is** real," Dean says. "There's some part of you that knows that. I know, because the angels told me that they couldn't kill it. They couldn't get rid of that part of you, no matter how hard they tried."

"_Shut up_," Adam says, shaking his head. His hands come up to rake through his hair as he crouches on the floor. "_Don't talk about… about that._"

Dad once said that half of puberty was lust, and half was rage. He might well have been right; stripped of his anger, Adam is suddenly just a lost little boy who wants to go home so bad he can't stand it. He just doesn't know where _home_ is. "You had a good life, Adam. And you can find it again… but not here. If you stay here, you'll lose everything. It's not worth it, kid."

Adam sits on the ground and looks up at Dean. "_Just… stop it. I don't want to be sad anymore. Make it stop_."

"I can't," Dean says with a shrug. "But you can."

"_How?_" Adam asks.

Dean purses his lips for a second, thinking of what he hopes is the right way to put it. "Just… let go."

"…_what?_" Adam says.

"You might not even realize you're holding on, but you are. That's what's making you sad. Just let it go, Adam," Dean says, kneeling down to eye level. "Just let it all go."

Adam looks uncertain. "_Just… just let go?_"

Dean nods, gives him a little half-grin. "That's all there is to it."

The boy looks at Dean for a few more seconds, before closing his eyes.

Dean mentally crosses his fingers.

Sam gasps behind him, like something cold got poured all over him (or got poured out of him). Unable to go against his instincts, Dean immediately runs over to his other little brother, who is now wide awake, and more than a little confused. "What the Hell?"

Dean grins. "Hey there, Sammy. How you feeling?"

Sam opens his mouth to respond, but stops for a second to actually consider the question. "I feel… different. Like… good different, not evil-different. It's… weird."

Dean just smiles a little wider, offering a hand to Sam to help him up. "Ah, don't worry about it. I think I get the idea."

Sam gives him a look, but takes his hand anyway. "So… how long was I out? What happened? Where's—"

"_DEAN,_" a voice shouts from behind them. Uh oh. Shouting is not a sign of happy spirit ascension to the afterlife.

They turn to see Adam, eyes wild and panicked, image distorted and blinking wildly like a television set on the verge of a breakdown. "_What's… what's happening to me_?" he says, terrified.

"Easy, kid, easy!" Dean says. "You're just crossing over. There's nothing tying you down anymore, you're free to—"

"_**WHAT?**_" Adam shouts. The lights through the _entire store_ flicker at that.

"Hey, hey!" Dean says. "It's okay, it's all gonna be…"

"_You tricked me_," Adam says, shaking his head and backing away. The PA system's speakers start to pour sounds of static into the still air.

"No, Adam, I didn't…" Wait. Maybe he kind of did. Accidentally. But, you know, he really didn't mean to.

"_I can't…_" Adam says, and the static increases in volume and seems to _evolve_ into some kind of freakish screeching sound over a low electronic hum. O_h, shit_. Dean has only seen that expression on Adam once before. The kid's on the verge of a full-blown freakout.

"Adam, please, just calm down," Sam tries, but Adam is having none of it.

He continues to babble as he backs away, his head darting around, eyes wide and looking for danger, pure cornered animal panic. The noise increases in pitch, and the lights start to brighten and dim erratically. "_No! I can't, I can't go back. They'll… they'll get me, they'll find me… __**HE **__will find me… no, no no nononononono… I can't. I can't_."

He grabs his head and curls up into a ball for just a second, before suddenly launching in the other direction, arching outwards.

"**I WON'T.**"

And all Hell breaks loose.

_To Be Continued_

* * *

**A/N**: Not really a _song_, per se, but I actually have something specific in mind for the 'noise' the speakers start making during Adam's panic attack. Go to youtube video "CLZI6t9k-NY" to hear it (just copy that, minus quotations, and paste it in the address bar after the "watch?v=" in any youtube URL). **BE WARNED—**it's a little freaky.


	11. Daybreak

**Title:** Static Cling [11/11]  
**Author:** morkhan  
**Warnings:** Cursing, violence, standard SPN stuff, really.  
**Characters:** Dean, Sam, Adam, Bobby, Castiel… and a surprise guest. ;)  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Word Count: **4137  
**Summary: **In the end, it is neither of them. Neither of them has what it takes to send Adam home. And yet…  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. I barely own the ideas I use, randomly cobbled together from bits and pieces of things I've watched or read. Eric Kripke and the CW are the REAL geniuses here.

**Author's Notes: **It's the end of the line, people. This is the grand finale, and I thank you all for sticking with me through it. This is the longest story I've written to date. It's a little lighter on the lulz than _Shiny Happy People_, but I love it nonetheless.

You guys played a large part in ensuring I kept with it until the end, so I hope the ending is payment enough for your investment in this story. There is one more song in this chapter, but it needs no introduction. I am sure you will recognize it. :) Once again, all feedback is welcomed. Enjoy!

* * *

_Something was bound to go right sometime today  
All these broken pieces fit together to form a perfect picture of us._

- **Snow Patrol, **_**The Lightning Strike (iii) Daybreak**_

* * *

Adam goes _**off**_.

The speakers _explode_ with one of the most earsplitting, god-awful noises Dean has ever heard, shrieking and humming and thrumming like some kind of demented, possessed pipe organ. The pitch modulates like crazy and changes at random, along with the volume itself, which grows louder and softer as it damn well pleases. The lights flicker on and off at random when they don't just explode outright, several of them burning about a dozen times brighter than they're supposed to. The freezers start to go psycho crazy, humming louder and louder, even the goddamn cash registers start to beep constantly, a loud complaint, like someone stepped on their foot and just will not move.

And as for the ghost himself…

You know those little lightning ball thingies that were really popular in the 80s? Like, with the glowy purple electrical insides that had those little energy tentacles that would follow your finger when you touched the glass? Plasma Globes, that's what they were called.

Well, it's kind of like that.

Adam stands with his arms outstretched, back arched as _**ginormous**_, bright blue arcs of electricity tear from his body at random. They move around unpredictably, or at least Dean isn't willing to stand out in the open long enough to _predict_ them—he and Sam both dive into an aisle the second they get the chance.

"**What did you do, Dean?**" Sam asks (in a shout. They pretty much have to shout to be heard in this racket).

He kind of wishes he had a better answer. "**I cut his anchor strings… or he did himself, with my help,**" Dean says.

Sam looks surprised. "**Really?**"

"**Yeah!**" Dean says. "**Except apparently he didn't know. And now he's mega-pissed**."

Sam takes the information in relative stride. "**Holy shit! How is he still here?**"

A stream of electricity _annihilates_ a few ceiling tiles above them. They cover their faces to dodge the plaster.

"**That's what I'd like to know!**" Dean says. "**Holy **_**FUCK**_**, he is ticked**."

"**He's unstable!**" Sam shouts. "**He's gonna destroy himself!**"

"**He's gonna destroy **_**us**_**!**" Dean shouts back. "_**Shit!**_** He was so freaking close to going on his own**…"

Sam takes a second to peak out at Adam, just barely managing to duck his head back before he gets fried. "**He's not mad**," Sam says. "**He's scared**."

Huh. That makes sense. Fear is the father of anger, arguably even worse than his bratty child.

The end of the aisle explodes into a flaming mess. Toilet paper is highly combustible, apparently.

Suddenly, Sam gets _that look_. Oh, how Dean has missed that look. "**I've got an idea**," he says. "**Go out and keep him distracted. Don't let him destroy the store, and keep him out of the back, okay?**"

"**Oh, yeah, piece of freakin' **_**cake,**_" Dean shouts. "**Fine, okay, go!**"

And Sam goes, taking off across the store in a dead sprint.

Which leaves Dean to deal with Adam.

Great.

* * *

Sam's cell phone is out of his pocket and in his hand before he is even halfway through the back room doors. "Call Bobby," he says to the phone, having invested in one of the newer models, hoping that the additional features would come in handy in situations like this, where he needs to make a call without fumbling with the touch screen or number pad or fuck him, the stupid phone is dead. Son of a _bitch_. And not 'dead' as in 'the battery needs to be charged,' but 'dead' as in 'my electric brother discombobulated it into a $400 plastic paperweight.'

Sam tosses the phone into a trashcan as he darts from the hallway into an office. Guess he'll have to do this the old fashioned way.

* * *

Inching over as much as he can, he picks up one of the few bags of salt that's still intact. Sam headed into the back room, and Dean needs to cover his tracks as quickly as possible.

Not that Adam seems like he intends to chase down the middle Winchester. Kid's a little… _distracted_.

"_They'll find me, they'll find me, I can't hide, I can never hide, not from them, not up there_…"

Adam's voice seems to come from everywhere. All of a sudden, he is in the middle of the same aisle as Dean, energy bursts ripping through the air and demolishing the ceiling in a shower of sparks. Dean just barely manages to turn around in time to duck behind his salt bag, which makes a surprisingly effective shock absorber. Hiding beneath his sodium shield, he scrambles backwards just as a snack bar's worth of pretzels explodes in his general direction. A few slices on his face, but he's dealt with much worse.

"**ADAM**," Dean shouts. "**CALM DOWN, MAN! IT'S OKAY, I **_**PROMISE**_**!**"

Adam is so far beyond listening, it's not even funny. "_**GET AWAY**_," he shouts, and several more objects near Dean detonate—a case of Bud, several bottles of cheap wine, and, oh yeah, _an entire freezer's worth of Coke products_. See, _this_ is why he dresses in layers. You never know when you're going to get showered in high-velocity glass from all directions, and in situations like that, you really need all the protection you can wear.

"Whatever you're doing, Sammy, you better do it quick," Dean grunts as he reaches the stock room door, emptying his salt bag in a straight line at the base, and wondering if this place happens to carry haz-mat suits. Or a scuba-diving outfits…

* * *

"Bobby, it's me, Sam," he says quickly. It took him three tries to get Bobby on the line. The first time, he forgot to dial 9 to get a line out. The second time, his stupid giant fingers hit about six buttons too many. "I need your help."

"I'll be there quicker than you can spit—"

"No, no!" Sam says, shuffling through the massive mess of papers and random clutter on the desk. Whoever's office this is, they're a total slob. It's amazing how someone this messy can run their own life, let alone a business. "Where are you now?"

"I'm at the hotel room—"

"Perfect," Sam says. "I need you to do something for me…"

* * *

"_They're dead, they're all dead, and none of them are dead, and none of them are alive, and they hate me, they hate me and I deserve it, I hurt them, I hurt them by being __**alive**_…" The kid is rambling like crazy. He's popping in and out of existence at random, his voice is coming from the speakers right alongside the Sound of Electric Hell, and every time he looks at the kid… he's disappearing. The cracks in his form are wider than ever, the thunderbolts literally seeming to tear out of him, and tearing him apart as they go. Where he once had cracks, he now has _holes_, growing more and more numerous as time passes. Jesus fucking Christ. _Please_ _don't let this kid go out like this_, Dean thinks.

He runs down the produce aisle as fast as he can. Behind him, a stream of electricity tears through kumquat, watermelon, squash and pumpkin alike, blasting sticky, gooey fruity fragments into the stratosphere… or at least to the ceiling. The store is on fire in _several_ places, the flames spreading like an outbreak of head lice, and _why aren't the fucking sprinklers working?_ What the Hell kind of store is this?

Oh, _there's_ the sprinklers.

Wait.

**Shit**.

He _really_ shouldn't have said anything. Water plus electricity is _**fantasmagorically **_bad news for him. Fortunately, it seems Adam's fearsplosion has caused enough damage to the water system so that it's not raining on the other side of the store. All he has to do is get from here to there.

"…_he'll find me, he said he would, I'm his, I __**belong**__ to him, his forever, I said so, I said yes, no taking it back, no taking it back, he'll __**find me**__…_"

Yeah. Piece. Of. Freaking. Cake.

* * *

"Come on, **come on**," Sam grunts, searching through the room. He's checked the top of the desk, the drawers, inside the cabinet, for God's sake, he even combed through the _**filing**_ cabinet. There has to be one _somewhere_—

Unbelievable. It's on top of the cabinet. On **top** of the cabinet. Why would anyone put—you know what? Forget it.

He runs back over to the phone. "Bobby, you there?"

"I'm here," he says. "I've got it ready, just like you asked."

"Great!" Sam says, putting the result of his search on the desk where he can use it. "On my cue…"

"I hope to God this works, cause if it don't…"

"Yeah, I know," Sam says. "Fingers crossed…"

* * *

He is just about cornered here. Dean's plasma bomb of a little brother is teleporting erratically now, but each time he does it, he seems to land a little closer to Dean, and it's getting _really_ hard to dodge at this rate. He's already gotten singed several times, had some hair that was _just_ starting to grow back once again scorched from his head, and he's getting seriously worn out here.

"…_can't go back, don't make me go, don't make me, don't make me go, my brothers, you're my brothers, don't leave me, __**PLEASE**_…"

And then he is right fucking next to Dean, the force of his appearance knocking the hunter off of his feet. He can hear the sound of the electricity blasting the floor around him as he covers his face. All that's left to do at this point is brace for the inevitable. He feels the tingle start as the lightning draws near…

"_Adam_," says somebody from somewhere.

And suddenly, the shocking stops. The noise stops. The lights stop. And Adam… just stands there, looking like _**he**_saw a ghost. "_What… what was_…?"

"_Adam_," somebody says again, same tone as before. Dean swears he remembers that voice…

Adam's eyes go wide, and he takes a shuddering breath. "_…M-mom?_" he breathes, flickering out from in front of him. Ah, so **that's** who it is. …holy **shit**. Is _**that**_ who it is?

The hunter gets back to his feet, looking around the store for any signs of spiritual activity. There is only one part of the place left where anything is working. A corner with two functioning light fixtures, where Adam currently stands, looking lost and alone.

"_Mom, where…_" he starts, but the voice interrupts him.

"_Awww, sweetie, are you tired?_" the voice asks.

Adam looks around for just a second, before his eyes mist up, and he nods. "…_uh-huh_."

Dean's jaw _drops_. Holy shit. _Holy shit. _He holds his breath as he carefully walks over, not wanting to disturb the scene, but _needing _to see what happens here. _Sammy, if this works, you are the smartest goddamn…_

"_Is it time to go to sleep?_" asks the voice of Kate Milligan in a gentle, motherly tone that to this day, Dean remembers from his own mom.

Adam blanches at this, shaking his head and looking pained. "_…no, I can't_…" His eyes don't stare at anything in particular, and it's not hard to imagine why. He's not here anymore, not really.

"_But you need to, sweetie. If you don't, you'll just always be tired. Do you want to always be tired?_"

"…_no_," Adam reluctantly admits, shaking his head.

"_Well, I'm glad. You're cranky when you're tired_," Kate's voice gently teases.

The Adam from before vehemently denied it… but this one just huffs out a shaky, wobbly laugh, smiling in honest-to-god happiness for the first time Dean has ever seen him. He is swaying on his feet again, eyes half-lidded and delirious.

"_Okay, so let's try this again. Is it time to go to sleep?_" Kate's voice gently prods.

Adam's ghostly legs can no longer support him. He falls to his knees, and lets out a breath that sounds so much like a sob that Dean's own chest clenches in sympathy. Actual tears spill out of his eyes, but he manages to pull it together long enough for a slow nod, and an "_Uh-huh_." His eyes are nearly closed now.

"_That's my good boy_," says Kate, and Dean can _hear _her smile, practically feel her warmth across time and space, as she coos the words that finally put her baby boy to rest. "_Come to mama_."

Adam leans unsteadily back and smiles at the sky he can't even see. With one final, shuddering breath, he lets out his last word. "…_'kay_."

With that, his eyes slide closed, and he falls. Even as he goes down, a brilliant, sky-blue light seems to engulf him from within, so bright that Dean has to shield his eyes with his sleeve for a few seconds. And when it's gone… so is Adam. All the lights in the building are out, and the tingling in Dean's skin is gone.

The kid is finally, _finally_ at rest.

He stands there for just a few seconds longer, eyes anchored to the spot where his baby brother laid down to sleep. All he has left to offer is a shaky smile of his own.

"Sleep tight, kid."

* * *

Sam takes his finger off the 'talk' button on the PA microphone.

"Did it work?" Bobby asks from the other end.

"Yeah," Sam says, with a slight hitch in his voice. "Yeah, I think it did. Good call, by the way, on the rewind at the beginning."

"Good call yourself, keeping the tape," Bobby says. "So, I take it I'll see you two knuckleheads soon?"

"See you soon," Sam smiles, hanging up as Dean knocks on the door and calls him from outside.

"_Hey, Sam, we better get a move-on. The roof is on fire, and we ain't got no water, so we gotta scram before the motherfucker burns_."

Yikes. They're pretty much already arsonists in the eyes of the local authorities. The last thing they need is to be caught at the site of _another_ burning building. Their next escape probably won't be quite so easy…

So with a quick look around to make sure he isn't forgetting anything, Sam heads out to join his brother. There was something funny about Dean's voice a few seconds ago, and it bears investigation. The way Sam sees it, he owes his big brother a few ovary-related jibes, and there's no time to collect like the present…

* * *

"…_and finally, the local family-owned grocery store 'Connor's Market' also fell victim to last night's record-breaking storm. Firefighters arrived on the scene early this morning to find the building engulfed in flames. Although they were able to douse the blaze, the damage to the store was extensive. Authorities say that a lightning strike was the most likely culprit, though Store Owner Albert Connor has surveyed the damage himself and insists that some kind of bomb went off…_"

Dean reaches up and flicks the radio off. "Ouch," he says. "I hope that guy's insurance covers acts of God."

"I'd say that's a lot more likely than 'acts of Ghost,'" Bobby grunts, pulling the brim of his cap down to hide his eyes from the early-morning light. It's daybreak by the time the three of them reconvene and start to head out of town. Sunrise. A new day. Dean can't help but cringe at the cheesiness of it all. Fucking symbolism. "So," Bobby continues. "One more time—it was _Sam_ the kid was stuck to?"

Dean nods. "Damn straight it was."

"And you figured this out all by yourself?" Bobby asks.

Dean scoffs. "Hell yes, I did." He turns his shit-eating grin towards Bobby, half-hoping to blind him with the sunlight reflecting off his teeth. "I think I deserve a treat. Milk and fresh-baked cookies. You know I love your chocolate chip and macadamia nut."

Bobby snorts. "Oh, of _course_. And on top of that, if you're **real** quiet the _whole _drive home, I'll let you stay up an hour past your bedtime. What do you say to that?"

Dean thinks for a second. "…yeah, not likely."

"Should've known better than to hope for quiet from you," Bobby sighs.

Dean just keeps on grinning. "Speaking of quiet… you alright over there, Sasquatch?"

The three of them are crammed into the cab of Bobby's truck. Dean's driving, Bobby is leaning against the window, trying in vain to catch up on his lost shut-eye. Sam is sitting forlorn in the middle, staring longingly at the sunrise like the emo kid Dean knows he is. "Yeah," Sam says in a thick, hoarse voice. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Uh-oh," Dean mock-sighs, shaking his head. "Sassy's getting all _emotional_ on us."

Now, Sam is positively _brimming_ with outrage. "Dean, tell me you did **not** just go there."

Dean shrugs. "Hey, if the shoe fits—"

"I was **nice** to you!" he shouts. "There were _actual tears_ on your face when we left the store. I was all geared up to ream you for it, but you looked **so** bad, I actually felt _sorry_ for you. That'll teach me to show _mercy_ to someone. Next time you're down, I'm not just going to kick you, I'm going to _riverdance_ on your ass—"

"_Don't make me turn this car around_," Bobby grumbles from the passenger's seat, in a tone that tells Dean in no uncertain terms that he is willing and able to do exactly that.

"Sammy, dude. Cool your jets. I'm just messing with you, man. I'm actually glad to have you getting all weepy on me. I missed my giant, cuddly little buddy," Dean grins.

That puts a lid on Sam's steaming teapot, and he smiles in spite of himself. "Yeah? Well, that makes two of us. I missed me, too."

"I wish I could _miss_ the both of you. For the love of Nyx, will you girls put a tampon in it and **let me sleep**?" Bobby grouses.

"Sorry, Bobby," Sam winces.

"Rest in peace, old man," Dean smiles, ducking the air freshener hurled like a knife at his temple, and decides that maybe this time he _should_ be quiet. Bobby without sleep is like Hilary Clinton without clothes—_not a pretty sight_.

They ride the rest of the way in silence, at least until Bobby starts snoring. The only other sound is the hum of the engine, the roar of the road, and the occasional slap of a hand on a shoulder, as Dean reaches over and puts an arm around Sam, squeezing him for a second. Sam looks a little confused, but the smile fights its way to victory once again, and Dean's own smile brightens in return. He's starting to think that maybe being kind-of-sort-of affectionate every now and again isn't be such a bad thing. Next visit to the physician, he'll ask his doctor if this _emotion_ stuff is right for him…

* * *

Bobby nearly shoots them when he sees the wreck the inside of his house has turned into. His dog is happily sleeping on the couch, and a small family of raccoons is making short work of his pantry when they arrive. He and Sam spend a few hours cleaning up the disastrophe in the kitchen and washing the smell of wet mutt out of Bobby's couch cushions.

"You know," Sam says, on his hands and knees, scrubbing the floor. "Sometimes… sometimes, he wasn't so bad. If he wasn't crazy… or, you know, dead… he probably would've fit right in."

Dean smiles. "I wouldn't have wanted him to fit in, but… if he had to, I think he could have. I think we would've liked him. You know… eventually." He pauses for a second. "He was a good kid. Bad ghost… but good kid."

Later, as they bid Bobby farewell (or rather, as Bobby kicks them out of the house so he can get some fuckin' shut-eye and not worry about them playing with lead paint or drinking the stuff under the sink), and head out to the Impala, Sam has one of his _Sam _moments. Dean feels it long before it actually hits, so when it comes, he's braced and ready for impact.

"So, Dean," Sam says as they climb into his beloved beauty once again. "That stuff you said… in the store…"

"What about it?" Dean asks as he reaches into the backseat. Now that Adam is no longer haunting them, Dean kind of wants his radio back. He has been seriously missing his tunes.

"Since I was… you know… the anchor, or whatever," Sam stammers. "You… uhhh… I guess you pretty much **had** to say all that—"

"I meant it," Dean says simply, shoving the radio back into its rightful place.

"Dean, you don't have to…"

"I **meant** it, Sam," Dean says. "Still do. So... believe it."

Sam looks at him with his stupid lost puppy eyes, something Dean hasn't seen in freaking forever. _God_, he's missed this. "…okay," Sam says, finally, smiling. "I do."

"Good," Dean says. "'cause I'm not saying it again."

Sam snorts. "Jerk."

"Bitch," Dean replies.

And for a second, all is right in the world.

Dean cranks the car…

_Once, I rose above the noise and confusion  
Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion  
I was soaring ever higher,  
But I flew too high_…

Sam's eyes cloud over, his face in slight shock. "That's…"

"I know," Dean says. He's a little freaked himself.

_Though my eyes could see, I still was a blind man  
Though my mind could think, I still was a mad man  
I hear the voices when I'm dreaming,  
I can hear them say…_

"Dad's favorite song," Sam says.

Dean looks around the car, does a little sweep with one of the spare cells they keep in the dash, but there's no sign of Adam. "You think it's him?" Dean asks. "You think he knew?"

Sam shakes his head. "I don't know… maybe it's an apology. Or a goodbye."

"Or a coincidence," Dean offers as he puts the car into gear…

Whatever it is, they decide, it's appropriate. The tie that bound the three of them together offers a final benediction they can all appreciate.

_Carry on, my wayward son  
There'll be peace when you are done  
Lay your weary head to rest  
Don't you cry no more._

* * *

_He can barely move, and he hurts everywhere. He feels like he's been shredded into confetti, getting ready to be thrown out over someone else's parade. Someone is carrying him in their arms, and he knows he should care. He should care who it is, where they are going, what they are going to do with him, but he's just so _tired_… he can't even summon the strength to open his eyes. It's so bright here…_

_Still… what if... what if _they_ have him? What if they're taking him to—no, no, not again_…

"Calm yourself, Adam," _a stern, gravelly voice gently commands. He recognizes it, and the realization just makes him struggle more_. "Adam, please. Your spirit is badly damaged. Do not injure yourself further. I am Castiel, a friend of your brothers', and I will not harm you."

_Adam doesn't believe him. He __**can't**__, not after everything._

_And yet… he stops squirming, just the same. There's no point in fighting, anyway. He can't get away…_

"Don't be afraid, Adam. You will not have to see me for much longer. I am taking you to a safe place, and to someone who will take very good care of you."

_Adam doesn't believe him. He can't… and yet, somehow, he feels calmer._

"Oh, God," _another voice says, and Adam freezes. He can't breathe, he can't move, he can't think. But it isn't from fear… he just… he can't let himself believe_… "What did you do to my baby?" _the voice says._

_It's instinct. Pure, primal urge. He reaches his arms out towards her, squirming against the hold of his captor, trying to reach her. She reaches him first, taking him in her arms and wrapping herself all around him. He feels warm for the first time in ages—melting after lifetimes of frostbite._

"He is hurt," _Castiel's voice says. _"But he can recover. With you, in time, he will be made whole again."

"Why? Why would you _do_ this to him…?" _she asks, and she sounds so sad. Adam just clenches to her tighter, because he doesn't want her to be sad. She always hugged him when he was sad…_

"I wish I could give you an answer that would satisfy you," _Castiel says_. "But I don't have one. All I can say is that in time, he will heal, and you have time. You have forever."

_She squeezes him gently, and he feels her carrying him away. _"Oh, my baby. My sweet little boy… it's okay. Mama's got you."

_And that, he believes_.

**THE END**


End file.
